A Glass of Chardonnay and a Bottle of Rum
by SpeakingThroughWrittenWords
Summary: One hundred moments of two people who should never have fallen in love. But who are they to argue with history? They do, of course, and who would try and stop them? 084.Make-Up – It was what they did to survive, never new.
1. Romance

**Romance**

Only France could call what was between them _romance_.

The flowers, presents, dinners, that one time France had taken him to his Paris and their transportation had broken down in the rain... England had beaten him over the head for that mistake and France had simply laughed. These sort of things England could call_ friendship_. Most of these things he could simply accept as friendship. The sex was just sex. They would fight without restraint and England was just as ready to kill him as to let him into his house.

"But _mon cher_, romance is fanciful. Romance is what happens to us in our colourful lives. It can be baseless and made up, it can be magical and historical. All of these things make up our lives. And as we spend our lives together... what is between us can only be romance."

"Are you twisting my language around to make your point?" England asked as France poured himself more wine.

"It's your language, which is already twisted around. I suppose you have to be foreign to it to understand."

England was inclined to think that France was just barely on target with his description and ignored the thought.

"What is this?" France asked as England pushed the box across the table.

"A present."

And France smiled, picking it up with his fingertips, those fingertips which would often slide over England's body, those fingertips which had driven in nails and swords and wood into England's body, those fingertips which would simply slide between his fingers to squeeze his hand once in reassurance.

"France, I–"

But he would be an idiot to say it, would he not?

"Yes England?"

"Are you going to open it or what?"

Only France could call what they had romance without ever once having said he loved only him. Unlike what he said to everyone else, never once to him had France said '_Je t'aime. C'est toi, seulement toi, que j'aime. Juste toi._'

They were not romantic. And maybe it was because of that England could believe he did.

* * *

_These drabbles are for the FrUK fans out there who really need more of these stories to exist and fill their appetite. Plus I just have the need to write with them. So there._


	2. Beauty

**Beauty**

It was his specialty. To know, to see, to live pure beauty. He prided himself in his ability in each of these things. And the world knew it, which was almost the most important thing. The world knew and acknowledged him as such. France had no doubts.

"It's ugly." England snickered. France rolled his eyes.

"Not at all. It is under construction... wait to pass your judgments until it is finished."

"It is already difficult to look at you," England taunted. "Let alone having another blemish placed upon your face. Like I need to be reminded of you during the time of your revolution."

"Like I care what you are reminded of."

I did not take long at all for the Tower to be completed and France knew complete beauty. Beauty never lasted long. It was to last twenty years after all. He accepted this, knowing that such a goal as beauty was should be constantly striven for.

"Funny," England told him later, looking up from his glass at the far away structure. "I've gotten so used to the eyesore in the last few years, but it will be gone soon." It was late April, in a restaurant to have their own supposed 'celebration' on the _Entente-Cordiale_.

"_Quoi?_"

"That," England pointed at Eiffel's Tower. France glanced upon it with melancholy.

"Miss it, will you?"

England did not respond. France took that as an affirmative of a bare minimum.

A hundred and five years later it still stood. England had come to only accepting an offer of lunch in Paris if they ate there – his reasoning being because eating at the Tower meant he was at the only place in Paris he would not see the Tower. France now sat on the side of the booth of which let him gaze out at the nighttime of Paris. England had been sitting here, but now half-drunk he seemed much more intrigued with straddling France and pressing occasional kisses against his neck.

"I never know what's more beautiful," he sighed into the ear of one who was neither listening nor a good judge of beauty, "the view from here or the view of here."

He knew he was supposed to be pure beauty. And he was, he would never deny that. But then there was the crass mouth of a drunken Englishman.

"I know whut's m're beautiful," England said stubbornly. "You when y' shut up."

France chuckled.

"I take it, then, you like a closed mouth smile? Perhaps, _mon amour_, a _Duchenne sourire_?"

England did not respond, simply staring back at him through half-lidded eyes. And so, despite his years, France could still boast he was beautiful enough to stun England into silence.

When England, later when he was sober, denied this France could hardly care.

* * *

_The Eiffel Tower was supposed to be taken down after 20 years. Now imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower._

_A Duchenne smile is a smile which uses more muscles and is a smile which comes straight from emotions._


	3. Forgiveness

**Forgiveness**

England was not good with forgiveness.

When France would hang up on him (_right in the middle of a sentence_), England was much more likely to try and curse him than forgive him. Not that England never did the same, but it never bothered France as much as it did England. At least, France never let it show that it affected him.

When France would pass him on the street (_without giving him a second glance_), England was much more likely to ignore him in retaliation than forgive him. They did not ignore each other often. They could not. No, that was a ridiculous concept. Ignore the neighbor who often had his hands on his wallet (_hands under his clothes, hand in his hand_)? Not very tactful and England was definitely a master in the ways of tact.

When France would lock him out of his house (_in the rain_), England was much more likely to find a window where he had a clean shot of the blond's head than forgive him. England would lock France out of his own house in any weather, but France always found a way in. England wondered often how he could change his locks and France would always find a key that would get him in. England tried the same thing, but often ended up breaking a window instead.

England was not good with forgiveness.

And when England had tried all of these ways to talk to France and beg for forgiveness, well, England felt less and less like forgiving France for dragging it out this long.

Then again, he was not there to forgive, he was there to be forgiven.

"France, I'm sorry. _God,_ I'm so sorry... Please, let me in..."

It really did not seem to matter which end of the spectrum he was on, because either way...

England was not good with forgiveness.


	4. Regret

**Regret**

Regret was two hundred and twenty two kilometers eastwards of Paris. It was two miles southwest of Verdun where he and Germany tried to rip each other limb from limb.

"_Ils ne passeront pas."_

It all seemed so pointless. He would not return there for twenty four years, when suddenly a barrage of German once more assaulted his ears.

It all seemed so pointless.

"Of course you're complaining now," sneered England. France's eyes flickered and tried to focus on England before he realized the Nation could not be here.

"Here to give me my last rites?" The words were meant to be bitter, but they were simply tired. It all seemed so pointless.

"You going to say them?"

France chuckled. "You're not even here. I'm speaking to myself. And you know what is worse? I'm speaking to myself in _English_."

"Regret that, do you?"

It meant the same thing in his language that it did in England's. It was one of the words that England might have mangled when he pronounced it, but at least tried to speak it in the same spirit.

"We all have regrets."

Leave it to the England in his head to speak the obvious.

"What is your biggest regret?"

It all seemed so pointless.

"My biggest regret..."

When everything seemed so pointless, when his mind was bathed in all of the deaths which happened not so far from where he was now held, all of those things in the past which he thought he might regret by now seemed pointless.

"...was not kissing you that day in London. It was raining. It is always raining... I took your umbrella and left you in the rain for an hour before I returned to find you. You had gone home... you were furious. You had yet to get out of your wet clothes. But I just returned your umbrella. You were so angry, so beautiful."

He blinked to let the blood run off his eyelashes and down his face, then struggled to open his eyes once more.

"I only returned the umbrella..."

Oh right, England was not here.

"_J'aurais dû..._"

Regret was four hundred and sixty seven kilometers southeast of London.

Or right in London.

Take your pick.

* * *

_Regret is a village in France._

"Ils ne passeront pas_" - "They will not pass." Said to French troops by General Robert Nivelle in World War One at the Battle of Verdun, 1916._

_Verdun was the longest battle in the Great War, the most devastating battles in the Great War. It is also believed to be the longest and most devastating battle in Human history. It lasted eleven months. The French won, but veterans of this battle soon mutinied against further orders. 54 divisions of the French army saw 20,000 men desert._

_Twenty four years later began World War II._

_Regret is known to easily lead to Survivor's guilt._


	5. Discovery

**Discovery**

It was just another competition to them. Just another fight to come at less physical cost to themselves. And probably why they lost the very definition of the word 'empire' by the end.

"Do you remember that long fight?" France asked him quietly. It really was not the best time to discuss this, in the middle of a meeting. Then again, England never believed France to have a decent concept of time.

"Which one?"

"Over America." Ah, France was discussing this now so that England could not throttle him. Well, he could, but only to be torn apart moments later by the countries who were still paying attention to the current presentation.

"Of course I do, you bloody frog. I'm not senile."

France chuckled and England was certain by the end of this he would be throttling him anyway. "Isn't it strange? We went from collecting every new Nation we could find to finding ourselves alone once more."

"And it thrown in our faces each of these meetings."

"But they have grown so much, _non_?"

England thought about it. He thought about it and came to the conclusion that he was better off discovering them and being a conqueror. Not as good at governing, not as good at peace. "I preferred it when they were little."

His voice hitched against his own will. He did not look at France, but could tell France's eyes fall on him. "Ah, for the Age of Discovery. When the unknown world was our plaything."

Thinking back on it, the rest of the world probably did not appreciate that. But England yearned for those days nonetheless.

"We could pretend."

England glanced over.

"Tonight. And discover~"

England began to throttle him. In his mind. Still, the teased at violence did not come until that night, where they merely ensconced in a sword fight, followed by France tying him to the stairwell and England giving him a very large bruise on his left shin.

And while he was trying to untie himself as France retreated to nurse his 'wound', England decided he did not have to miss these times as much as he thought he had to.


	6. First Meeting

**First Meeting**

The only thing he could say for certain was that it had been raining. He had been young and England had been younger. France had not been expecting him, he had been expecting England's brother. To say they hit it off would be a lie. Every day was a fight. Then again, every person he met was to be a challenge, to be a fight. This was nothing different.

"_Who are you?"_

"_Je vous possédez."_

"_Ha! You speak strangely. Go away... you frog!"_

France hated how much it rained, even if teasing England mercilessly about it was rather fun. He could almost always get a rise out of him. It did not take him long to decide that England had to be his little brother. After all, no one else could be as annoying as a sibling. No one else could make you want to kill them, but whenever he had the chance he would suddenly falter.

"England?" France called out to where the other man had draped himself across the porch. A book lay across his face. "Typical, you finally get sun and you hide away from it."

England lazily removed the text from his head and looked over. "What do you want?"

They had come a long way. From an obvious or veiled insult every other sentence to here. It did not seem very different. They still fought nearly every day they saw each other.

"_Vous... are bleeding?"_

"_What? N-no I'm not! Go away!"_

Then every night...

"To tell you I have not felt the effects of your curse yet." France grinned as he bent over him. England simply looked annoyed, but France could tell he had struck a chord.

"Wait for it." England rose the book back above him to stare at the print. "It will hit you when you no longer expect it."

"So as long as I expect it... I am safe then?"

"Yeah, good luck with that," England snorted.

They had come a long way to be exactly the same. At least to another eye. It seemed rather two-dimensional and shallow.

France rather thought it sounded like a fairytale.

"_I don't like you."_

"'I don't like you.'"

England rose an eyebrow, lowering his book again. "I think we're a bit beyond that at this point."

"_Non_," France shook his head, moving so as to sit down beside his horizontal form. "Those were your first words to me, remember?"

"Actually, I believe my first words were telling you to get the hell off my island."

"And _then_ you said that," France bent down and kissed him. England finally let go of his book, opening his mouth slightly to allow France in.

"I still want you the hell off my land," England told him when France drew back. France chuckled.

"Yes, I know. You are stuck with me all the same."

He did not _like_ the fairytale. He was in _love_ with the fairytale.

As it was so reminiscent of England's taste in fiction, France thought nothing about not giving it up.

* * *

_If anyone wonders why this is familiar, it is because I was listening to Alexander Rybak's 'Fairytale' while I was writing this. I am _very_ influenced by music._


	7. Hardest Truth

**Hardest Truth**

England was always inclined to turn his book pages by the top corners. It was one of his quirks which he had yet to discover was because the larger amount of his population did the same thing, or because it represented something about his government, or transportation systems, or literature meetings. As of yet, it was something that was purely him.

Doubtful. Everything they were, everything they did, was either the caused of something or caused by something. Growing older it was harder to ignore some of these things. How easily they could try and pretend to be something else other than a Nation and then blame their people for an action they had not really wanted to take.

Being a Nation came with Universal truths. Such as the fact they would experience so much more than Humans. Experience so much more, but there would be certain experiences (Humans took them so much for granted) that would be forever lost to them.

But they were Nations. Ergo, they had somehow experienced these things before, because their people had. They experienced it every day. A constant state of living and dying, contentment and suffering, gaining and loosing.

Loosing.

"What brings you to _La Ville-Lumière, mon cher_?" France asked, swirling the champagne around in his glass before extending it to him.

"I felt like insulting my eyes," England said outright, taking the glass and taking a swallow. "Eh. And my tongue, apparently."

"Tasteless." France clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Then again, this is coming from the Nation who has not realized his eyes are constantly insulted by eyebrows hanging so heavily upon them."

England pulled a face. "Let's not start this again, France."

"You said you came here to be insulted," France reminded him warmly as he took his glass back.

England was most likely to be here because at this moment there just happened to be a lot of British tourists in France's capital. He could say that. Then again, France probably knew. He probably knew and had been waiting for him. England could even say that. _Haven't you been waiting for me?_

"You git."

It did not matter. Were they in charge of their actions? England agonized over this the best he could, but it was impossible. It was not something that bothered his people. Therefore it should not bother him either.

They were better off not thinking about it.

"Oh, and here I thought you would call me... what was it now? Ah! A _wanker_."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" England smirked. "Actually, no you wouldn't. But I'll call you one all the same. I'm going home."

"_Angleterre!_ You just got here!"

"No. You've just _seen_ me here, there is a difference."

He could stay, or he could go. He chose to go. A Nation was a Nation. Alone, indivisible, forced to deal with every other Nation in one way or another. But it was to all be the same between them. Especially now.

For the hardest truth was that England could never really have him even if he wanted to. So he chose not to want to.

It was harder than it seemed.

* * *

_I have a very dim view on what it means to be a Nation._


	8. Resolutions

**Resolutions**

Both of them had managed to excuse themselves from a much larger party. Still, France had lost a bet to England and New Year's Eve had ended up in London.

"I insist on making _foie gras_," France had argued. England rolled his eyes.

"For yourself. I'm _not _going to eat it."

They had meant to watch the fireworks be shot off from the London Eye (France often watched England's eyes, with the excuse that he was waiting for one of them to turn), but when they heard Big Ben chime both were so ensconced in their own activities they could not be removed until the ten minutes of fireworks were over.

"Bugger it all, this is your fault." Despite his words, England did not move off of him. France entertained himself with the Nation's left shoulder.

"I accept the blame gladly, _mon amour_."

"You always ruin everything."

"_Mmm... oui_," France responded as he pressed kisses up England's neck. England finally seemed to give up complaining (a success on France's part not often gained) a lay there quietly for a few minutes.

"What plans have you made for the new year?"

"I am going to make love to you again."

"_Ah!_ France! _You_... You could at least answer the question first!"

France stopped, staring up at England and watching the faint blush which was beginning to return to his face. "My plans for the new year? But this _is_ on the top of my list~"

"You know what I mean," England sighed, sliding off of France and on to his back next to him. France trailed his fingers over England's collar bone, watching as England's eyes fluttered shut. "You always have to be so difficult."

"Nice try." He chuckled. "That should be your resolution, not mine."

England glared at him. "Are you calling me difficult?"

"But England!" France exclaimed softly. "Don't be offended! You _like_ being difficult and I wouldn't have you any other way!"

England's mouth contorted for a moment as he tried to refrain from answering. France really would not have it any other way.

He kissed him again and effectively kept his resolutions, for now, a secret.


	9. Anything

**Anything**

England noticed it quickly. When he skipped out on a date everyone suddenly knew. He was a jerk, he should not have done it, oh, but it was England so of course it happened. He should make it up.

When France skipped out on a date no one cared. No one mentioned it, no one thought twice about it, it was just France being France.

England found this extremely unfair.

"What could I ever do to make it up to you?" France pleaded after the eighteenth time England ducked away from his advances.

"What _would_ you do?"

"Anything!"

It was such a loaded word. England knew France knew this. He looked straight at him. "Anything?"

France stared straight back into his eyes. "_Anything._"

Anything really meant anything. And because France was prepared for 'anything' it meant he was certain he knew what England was going to suggest. And that almost bothered England more. Almost, because if France knew what he would suggest, he must have thought of a way to turn it to his advantage.

"I'll think about it."

England spent an entire night thinking it over. He came up with a solution in the very early hours of the morning after a few drinks. The surprising thing was that it was still a good idea when he was past his hangover.

"I want you to wear this to the next meeting," England announced, laying the clothing down before France. The other rose an eyebrow.

"One of your maid outfits?" France questioned.

"One of _your_ maid outfits."

"Nevertheless, everyone will be too distracted!"

England smirked. "I plan on it."

It was relatively easy to convince America that breaking the heating would make up for (part) of his addition to global warming. It was a cold winter and a colder meeting, but England alone was the one prepared for it.

And watching France freeze his ass off was definitely worth it.


	10. Home

**Home**

A warm summer. A château in the south. An evening on a veranda with a chilled glass of chardonnay. A companion simply as content to sit beside him as to deciding to take him right then and there without bothering to return inside.

He had the summer. He had the château. He had the wine. And, surprisingly enough, he had managed the last as well.

"_Tu es beau. Tu es fantastique. Tu es le plus merveilleux–_"

"Shut it France, you're ruining the moment."

France frowned, but did so. He did not move his hand, letting his thumb rub over England's hip bone. England stretched out on the bench, the fading sun giving France enough light to appraise the unclothed form next to him. France rested his head on England's chest, feeling lips press against his head.

"I... wouldn't be adverse to you saying it... in English."

Ah, ever a romantic. France chuckled, but only for a short while. The words escaped him against his will. "I wish I could come home to this every day."

England laughed. "Me naked on your balcony? Highly unlikely."

"No. To you."

He should not have said it. He knew it was the wrong thing to say. England stayed quiet for too long. "France..."

"I'm sorry."

England laughed again. It sounded watery. "That's not what you were saying in your language, frog."

"I... yes, I suppose."

England left about midnight. France was left staring up at the stars and sipping at his chardonnay. It tasted rather bitter, but he finished it anyway.

It was not fair.

Home this was no longer. Not while he was alone.

* * *

"Tu es beau. Tu es fantastique. Tu es le plus merveilleux–" = _"You are beautiful. You are fantastic. You are the most wonderful–" Thanks, Lily Winterwood for the correction!  
_


	11. Intimacy

**Intimacy**

He had been so scared, letting France in. England had been so used to relationships falling apart that he was certain this one should not go anywhere. When it did, England was scared.

"Intimacy comes in two realms," France whispered into the back of his neck. "Physical and emotional. They come at different times because most people are unable to keep track of both of them at the same moment."

"Is it all right to have only one of them with a person?" England asked, shivering as France's lips found their way down his back.

"Yes. But why would you want to?" France questioned, his fingers feather light over England's chest. England felt his body reacting, but he stayed quiet. He knew it was still obvious as he could feel the blush creeping over his entire body.

"It is... _ah..._ harder to be hurt."

France paused before turning England on to his back. England bit his lower lip to stay silent once more.

"It is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all."

'_Says who?_' England wanted to ask, but France had not left him the time to ask his question.

It was so much later, after he had lost and gained and lost once more, did England realize that France was a hypocrite who only wanted to want physical intimacy. Only wanted to want physical intimacy because that was the intimacy which hurt the least when lost. That was the intimacy which was the easiest to regain.

But they were the same, for England wholeheartedly agreed with him.


	12. SelfLove

**Self-Love**

It was said like it was an accusation. As if there was something wrong with it. As if everyone else was selfless. France knew that to be a lie. He knew England knew as well. The both of them were beyond those petty things.

Sort of.

"Come back!"

"Don't touch me."

"Well then!"

"...where are you going?"

Selfishness did not account for loving oneself, France believed. One could be selfish and still hate themselves. But one could not love themselves if they were not selfish. France understood it well.

But it was difficult at times not to hate himself. For things so long ago, for things just at that moment. At the same time it was difficult not to brag. France pondered the phenomena for so long to come up with only only forgone conclusion. It was all right. It had to be. They were still here. And he would stand before England and proclaim his discovery.

"I deserved to be loved."

"Do it yourself."

"I do. But it's not _enough_."

There was no second meaning to it. France just knew that loving himself was just not as good as someone else loving him. There was a part of him he could not reach.

England looked at him. The way he did so told France he felt the same way.

And this was probably the one thing they could finally agree on. They may have not been able to depend on each other, but there was a part of each of them which needed to risk themselves anyway. For that single moment which would never come.


	13. Kisses

**Kisses**

He was teased almost constantly (especially by that ungrateful America) about his love life. As if he were in a drought. And while England did not stop trying to act responsible (which caused the rumours to appear in the first place), he laughed almost nonstop at the misconception.

Drought? As if it had ever stopped raining.

"One for you~"

"I take it you want one in return?" France teased him. Despite his words he took one of England's hands to his mouth and kissed his palm.

"You're getting your hair in the glue." England snickered at the alacrity at which France rose his head off the ground.

"Your arts and crafts are out to get me," France complained, setting another picture (blurred, dark, and useless) on the edge of the last. "Now me."

England kissed him again, feeling a hand trail along the top of his trousers. "Do you want to be excused?"

"Oh, yes please."

"I meant _lose_," England narrowed his eyes. France pouted, but removed his hand. "Better." He stretched out and slapped another useless picture along the top edge of the collage. "Now for m– wait!"

France did not and England found himself on his back, forced to kiss France back. He protested in the form of flicking France in the forehead, but in no other way did he display his displeasure until he was allowed to breathe.

"You lost."

"I don't care," France retorted. "You can't allow your shirt to ride up so and only allow me a taste of your hands and cheeks!"

England smirked, taking France's hands up to his mouth and pressing light kisses on both of his knuckles. "I win. And you are making what _I_ want for dinner."

France grinned. "I know. I lost on purpose."


	14. Frustration

**Frustration**

England would deliberately hold himself right out of France's reach. He would tease him mercilessly and then just leave him hanging there, alone. Leave as soon as he had come. It drove France up the wall.

Not that he did not play the game. Not that he did not pretend to (and sometimes actually) enjoy the challenge. But sometimes, just sometimes, he simply wanted him for the sake of wanting him. Sometimes he would just become furious when England would walk away. Anger might have clouded judgment, but France would remember feeling nothing but the wish to make England immobile.

"You can't leave now," France crowed to the other's broken form. England's head tilted up. The next moment France had blood in his eye where England had spat.

"You can't keep me," England warned him. "You will never be able to keep me."

That was true. He was not able to keep him. And when France found himself torn apart and tied to the bed by England it was almost the same thing.

"You can't leave now, my little _slut_."

"Just try and fuck me, _Angleterre_. Try me. I won't be here for long."

But why was he moving away then? Why, when he actually had him, did he let him go? France had torn more than one wig into shreds, more than his own head of hair over the question. He would become so _angry_. He would just _want._ The cycle would repeat. France would feel nothing but the wish to keep England _there_ at whatever the cost.

"I see you don't need me here!" England exclaimed from the other side of the room. A pillow was clenched in his fists and France knew any moment now the fabric would tear and the feathers would fall. "_Pardon_ me!"

"_Non... c'est interdit,_" France hissed as he strode across the room, grabbing for England's arms. The pillow came to strike him across the face. France tripped him with his leg and England's elbow hit his jaw hard as they fell and fought.

It was not solitaire. Therefore, it took two players to make the game. They fought until one of them no longer had the strength to retaliate. The other would be the winner. The winner would get to do what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. For as long as the other did not have enough strength.

"Why?" England shrieked, nails and fists and teeth and his entire body, all lashing out to attack. It was always for damage, never for defense. "Why do you do this to me? Why won't you leave me alone? Why do I–"

The room was dark, no longer from lack of light, but from a blow to the head which made it nigh impossible to see at the moment. "_Porquoi–_" Oh, it hurt._ "Rester–_"

_Why won't you stay?_

When France awoke this time he was alone. The room was completely trashed and he was surrounded in feathers he did not remember being there before.

When France won these fights, sometimes he would do the same. Sometimes he would just leave.

And he could not understand why.


	15. Pressure

**Pressure**

When one tries to hold on for a long time, it builds. The tension. The stress. The burden. The albatross which would be strung so heavily around his neck.

"We do this on purpose," France proposed as he tightened the rope around England's wrists. "We are both such masochists, such sadists. I think we cannot imagine a moment when we are not causing each other pain."

England snorted, despite France's sparing attentions to the rest of his body. He had been brought over to the edge (_to all of the edges_) so many times. He could barely be considered in his right mind, but he tried. When he was not pleading, when he was not threatening, he was trying. "You started i–"

France did one of the things France did best and England found himself screaming once more. Pain? Maybe on some level where it was probably detrimental to his health. Maybe.

Then again, why should they? When the rest of the world was against them (not just them, _them_ in general) what was the point in causing each other pain when others were so willing to do it as well?

England knew that he was an expert at denial. He accepted this, sometimes. But so was France. People did not seem to notice this as often, the other Nations preferred to think of him as two-dimensional, England believed. But England knew better.

He stepped upon bloody ground to look upon where France was just barely standing. It was not France's blood, but it was just the same.

"Where were you?" France sobbed. "Where were you?"

It was an utterly Nation thing to do. Let the pressure build up until the only way it could go was the most fragile, the most bloody, path to take.

England looked at what Germany had done. His wishes for peaceful relations, a peaceful solution... those wishes were long since dead. Then again, how could he have ever had them in the first place?

How Human of him. How utterly, stupidly, Human of him.

* * *

_World War II. As Nazi plans became apparent, France pushed for harder lines. England was convinced there could be a peaceful solution._


	16. Absurd

**Absurd**

France often caught England about to take a step toward a leap of faith.

"I tend to veer away from killing myself some other way," France would say, catching England by the hand and turning him away from Death. "We are pointless, you know. All of us. So? We make our own meaning. Is there a God and therefore a meaning to the Universe? We'll never know while on this plane, so why care? Why be affected by this?"

"Because Humans have a choice to believe this," England said simply as he allowed France to move him toward Life. "We don't."

They did not, because Humans had to decide that knowing, that believing in something that would never affect them, that all of this was important. France could preach better ways, but he could not even begin to believe it.

When France found himself taking those same leaps, England was there as well.

"Go ahead. You said it yourself. We have no reason."

"You are just trying to make me angry, _Angleterre_. Don't speak philosophy with me."

"Of course. You are too dimwitted to be able to understand or involve yourself in an intelligent debate between colleagues."

"Colleagues?" France laughed. England shrugged.

"As good as." England would stand there, a complete gentleman as he had always prided himself on being, and holding out his hand for France to take.

It was so _absurd_ that they even tried. And there they were, taking the next step out to where there was no ground before them. Treading on waters never before stirred by anything known.

"And we try?" France asked, the desperation in his mind nowhere in his voice. England looked at him as if he were quite mad and laugh.

"As a dearly annoying friend would say, '_well duh_'."

"Quite accurately put! Remind me to thank him."

"Not on your life. His ego needs no inflation."

"Like his economy?"

"Ah! Such a low blow."

"It is what you pride me in... I would hate to disappoint you."

And when France found himself looking over Death in a _Dream_, he would try to ground himself with those words.

'_Well duh_.'

Because having heard England say it... It was simply priceless.

* * *

_This one was rather abstract in my head and came out as such. But go and read up on Absurdism. It is interesting._


	17. Forbidden

**Forbidden**

"Will you marry me?"

England could do nothing but stare at the man kneeling before him. "...pardon?" After all, he could not have heard that correctly. What was going through his head that would even make him think France was asking that? Certainly the other was on his knees in front of him (not the first time he had been there) and certainly he was–_ oh my God, is that a ring?_

"Will you, _mon amour_, marry me?"

He _had_ said it. England could not speak at first. Then he hit France in the head.

"Ow! Surely that is not your answer."

"My boss hasn't told me about this," England retorted. "Your timing is horrible."

"Your boss doesn't have to know," France responded, holding up the band once more. England choked. Does not have to know. Would not know. Which meant France's boss did not know.

"You _know_ we can't then, France," England said firmly. He was going to walk away when France took his hand.

"I've thought about this for a while." France pressed the back of England's ring finger to his lips. "No one ever has to know. This isn't about politics. This isn't about our peo–"

"_'Isn't about our people'_?" England exclaimed. "Everything we do is shown by our people! You can't just say–"

He was cut off by France's lips. England suddenly knew he was crying. France's arms were around him, ring pressed into his palm.

"To hell with them," France whispered against his mouth. "Marry me."

This was not right. They should not be doing this. He had to say no.

"Yes. _Yes_."

An hour later they were married, Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. And hour after that they were on a sailboat, drinking chardonnay and rum.

"I don't believe this," Arthur said again. Francis chuckled.

"Don't you? _Ma belle épouse..._"

Arthur could not bring himself to hit him. He stopped the hand sliding through his hair and brought it in front of him to look at. "I will buy you a ring. You'll have it–"

"Whenever you give it to me," Francis shrugged. Arthur nodded. "I suppose I will survive until then..."

"Oh. Complain, _complain_~"

"_I_ complain?" Francis exclaimed. Arthur grinned and kissed him.

When England returned home the next day, he felt as though he were walking on clouds. And when the fairies told him he was acting fantastical, he did not care.

* * *

_Written during class today for your enjoyment. It is the sequel to _Home_._


	18. Honesty

**Honesty**

It was much easier to lie.

"How typical of you England."

_I understand_.

"You are a fool!"

_I am as much of an idiot as you._

"I loathe you."

_I love you._

It was just so much easier to lie when no one knew the difference. Something things they were so good at lying about. France could spout them off for hours, lies upon lies...

The truth was that these truths sounded so strange on his tongue.

"I understand."

England looked at him through red eyes. How he could see anything through tears was beyond him. "Understand? Like you understand! Ha!"

"I am as much of an idiot as you."

England looked up at him from his desk with a smile. "Even more so, I'd say. What is your point?"

They were so true and yet... _yet_... They seemed to mean less than his lies.

"I love you."

France looked over at England and spoke the words drafted by the play.

"I love you."

Fake words for fake people. Fake words France could honestly imagine (_could wish_) were true. And after a dinner, after a gift (of which he was surprised England had given), and during sex...

"_I love you_."

His eyes widened with shock. France looked up through these eyes at England, waiting for the truth.

"That's it," England continued. "There's nothing more to say. Just for now... Do you love me?"

It was much easier to lie. But it hurt. It hurt so much.

_Je t'aime, mon Angleterre. Mon ami, mon amour, ma chérie. Seulement toi. Juste toi._

But he only said yes.

England cried into his chest and France wondered why he had just not taken the opportunity to tell the truth. Just this once.

* * *

_Sequel to _Romance_. I guess I just love writing sequels. Not that I think anyone is complaining._


	19. Grace

**Grace**

It was a certain rhythm he had. Something that made almost any movement seem as if it had been deliberately planned. Which was impossible, England knew, as to plan every thought their people had would be impossible. To control everything would be impossible.

Still, France's movement would be pure ecstasy to watch and England would have to ignore it.

"England?"

Balance. Legs moving. Inhale, exhale, in, out of his chest. Arms leaned over the table. Swallow. Tongue peeking through white teeth, red lips. Hip crooked to one side. And his a–

_Don't look._

"Are you..."

Slipping over the surface. Shoulders slightly forward. Chin down, eyes up. Deep blue shimmer, glisten side to side. Knee resting against the table. Shirt riding up to show–

_Don't look._

"...paying..."

Fingers splayed. Ankle hooked behind the other. Long line of his leg, heel to his–

_**Don't look!**_

"...attention?"

His green eyes flashed angrily up into blue. Glimmering blue, which let England know he was smiling even before he saw.

"Or maybe you are paying _too_ much attention?"

Every movement jolting straight through his body. "Shut up."

France leaned forward and caught England's lips with his own. Hands in hair. Tongue along teeth. Chest against chest. Lips against neck, hand against stomache, hand pressing into his–

"France!"

"_Oui, mon cher?_"

"Um..._ mmm_... _France_..."

"_Oui_."

* * *

_For my 'Much Ado' readers, most of my current work for reality is now done and I just have finals next week, so I will have time to write some more. Updates shall return soon!_


	20. Laughter

**Laughter**

France was not certain when he became aware of the fact. It used to be so condescending (as was everything England did), it used to grate on his nerves (as was every noise which escaped England), it used to be everything he loathed. As was England.

It was only when England laughed and France wanted to kiss him was he aware there was a problem.

"Do you need something?"

Only England could say it like that as France had him pushed up against the wall, arms pinning him there, that cocky smile still present on the Brit's lips as if he thought he knew exactly what it was France wanted.

"_Oui_."

England wore a feral grin, but did not move. "You are really asking for it, you frog. You are lucky that I–"

France did not wait for their usual foreplay. He reached beneath England's arms and tickled him. England let out a startled squeak, grin and confidence gone. They both ended up on the ground as England tried to defend himself. Interjected with 'stop it!'s and 'damn you, France!'s, France failed to get the sound he wanted. And he was unable to keep his hands from becoming more occupied with the squirming form beneath him.

"You git!" England tried to holler, but France started kissing him anyway and in a second England shut up.

It had not taken long for France to accept that he could not force the sound out. That noise. Watching England with his own people, professional and relaxed. Watching England with other Nations, overbearing and aloof. Watching England with _him_.

And England would _laugh_.

"What does he have that I don't?" France asked. England looked surprised.

"Well, I don't hate him."

"And?"

England looked at him quizzically before turning his attention back toward the door. Behind it lay not only England's child, but his own. During that occasional moment in time when both of them would be calm, while they were sleeping.

"What are you really asking, France?"

France struggled to find the English words, certain England would not understand him in his own (_superior_) language.

"I want you to laugh. Not laugh, but... _laugh_."

England looked at him sadly.

"And I want you to _smile_."

Ah. So his thoughts were not as one sided as he had once thought.

France leaned over the table to catch England's hand in his own. "Sounds like something which should be a joint effort." England opened his mouth, but did not say anything. And France knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about his king.

And now so was France.

"You get to try _once._"

"And so do you."

They tried multiple times that night, to spite themselves, and succeeded on a number of accounts. For France heard England _laugh_.

And he _smiled_.


	21. Confidence

**Confidence**

They were both so certain. Always so certain. Even in being on the same side, this stubbornness, this need to be right, their entire lives always clashed. And each was certain they would be the one to solve the problem.

Maybe they were too similar.

"_Will you accompany me to dinner?"_

"_These are for you."_

"_Dance with me."_

"_Are you going to kiss me?"_

"_Come to bed, England. I will make love to you."_

"_Show me France. Show me."_

The confidence was so pleasing. Yet always the downfall.

"_Eyebrows!"_

"_Scraggly beard!"_

England tried to figure out what it was they had done wrong. It could not be him. He had not gone wrong. France would swear the same and they would come head to head once more. Neither could be wrong. Each of them were confident in this. England stared back up at the window where he knew France was looking down at his departure.

_'Maybe I was wrong.' Say it. It is all right. You don't always have to be right. I don't mind._

He was so certain he was thinking that of France. So certain up to the point which they failed again.

_We were not meant to be._

And he tried to be confident.


	22. Happiness

**Happiness**

That was the question. Was it happiness when it had to be hidden?

"That's a nice ring," Spain commented, staring down at France's left hand. France held the golden band up to the light. It caught the lines of blue stone wonderfully.

"I think so too."

No, _'no, it is the most wonderful ring in the world.'_ No, _'you think so? It is because I am married.'_ No, _'England gave it to me. He's mine! He's finally mine!_' No, _'just mine!'_

_'He loves me!'_

None of that.

"Thank you." _I love him._

"You're welcome!"

Was this happiness? They had gone through so much. And still, every day there were lies, cheating, sickness, murder, torture, insanity... Nations could not possibly be truly happy. It was impossible. Yet France would weather the rain and knock on that door during hours so late it was ridiculous to have a confused yet pleased England open up for him.

And they would stand in the rain, kissing until they were not and Francis would be pushed into a hot bath because he was an idiot who wanted to be miserable in wet clothes, but Arthur would not stand for that, and he really would not as Francis would pull him in after him.

Both naked except for two gold rings, splayed with blue and green.

Maybe saying the words they wished to would never happen (they were too afraid), but in the meantime they had everything else.

"Poke your thumb while sewing?" Francis would ask, sliding Arthur's finger through his lips, his other hand's fingers pressing against his smooth backside. Arthur's eyelids would flutter.

"Git. Stop making excuses to get your mouth on me."

"_Non_. I would never make up _excuses_."

Arthur would simply rearrange himself on Francis' lap (after a bath, only halfway dressed because neither could be bothered, sitting in an armchair which only just managed to contain the both) and try to return his attentions to his book.

"Read to me," Francis would demand.

The counter would come, but eventually Arthur would give in. At least, until Francis changed the request and asked him to translate it into French. They would have a row which would end up with them once again naked, on the floor, both just as glad for central heating as they were for each other.

"_'Every day...'_"

"Hm?" Francis asked. Arthur shrugged.

"It's nothing."

It was not. The thought hit France and suddenly he was certain. Happiness was here, was in reach, was what he made of it.

And he was going to make love out of it.

* * *

_Sequel to Forbidden._


	23. Sexy

**Sexy**

England knew that by this point in his life he should be beyond petty things like appearance. It was either fortunately or unfortunately that he was the sum of his parts, one of which was all of his short-lived people's opinion. It meant Nations usually had some very strange tastes. Compared to Humans, to each other, and even in their own eyes. Yes, they all knew how strange they were.

It was also difficult to line up their tastes. Which was why England found himself wearing a skirt which barely covered anything, a bra which most likely only accentuated his nipples (_it was cold!_), and on his hands and knees looking down at France's blushing and appreciative face.

"A... bra, England?"

Like France could talk. England could feel the evidence of his success pressing up against the thigh he had nestled between France's legs.

"Shut up."

Chocolate covered fingers (another ingenious plan of England's) trailed up his stomache.

"_Seulement si tu me faire taire~"_

England smirked. "I'd be glad to."

"Who could resist a siren call like that?"

Sexy for sex was one thing, but sexy to be remembered was another. It always took more effort. Certainly England could keep a straight face while pictures went public (pictures that France could not explain to his boss and therefore got in trouble for), but that was not the type of remembering he wanted.

He just wanted to take France's breath away, but he did not know how to do it.

Well, until then there would just be a lot of sex. A win-win situation if he had ever seen one.

* * *

"Seulement si tu me faire taire" = _"Only if you shut me up."_


	24. Tears

**Tears**

England liked to pretend he never cried. The attempt could not be considered admirable. They were far from immune from the feeling. France could tell. England would always stop himself, from where he was either on top of the world or under another's heel. Most likely France's.

"We cry," France tried to convince him.

"Do we?"

"Yes."

_Hypocrite_, said those emerald eyes. France ignored it and found himself later tilting his head back to let the eye drops fall into his eye.

He cried at the wrong times. That was the problem. Misunderstood by his own people _(by every person, he had to say),_ crying for no reason, laughing when his world was crashing around him, he would not cry. He could not.

"It has been fifty years."

And he sobbed into his hands. A hand was on his shoulder, but no words would accompany it. Comfort had come so long ago, now there was no need. Apologies had come and gone. This was the wrong time to cry.

"Some... scars never heal."

"The wounds do," France responded, clearing his throat. "The scars left behind are there to make certain we never forget about the people that had so much more to give to the world."

England stayed quiet for a while before he nodded. "Well, gives us another reason to drink."

"Do I take that as an offer?"

"Sod it. I'm drinking whether you are or not. And I'm _not_ paying for you."

"Whatever happened to that old British hospitality?"

"We're in _your_ country."

"And_ you_ are still British."

England would end up sobbing over America. France would stare down into his crude mug and wonder why trying to drown himself like England tried never worked. Maybe he just preferred his alcohol for taste, for that warm feeling, for the words it would let slide from his lips without thought.

Kissing once, each tear stained cheek, France wished he could cry again, when he wished, and let the cork out of the bottle of his emotions.

But instead, he drank.


	25. Growth

**Growth**

"...ha. Ha. Ha ha ha!"

France looked at him as though he were insane, but England was unable to tell for long, as he now he was doubled up in laughter. "What in the world is your problem, _Angleterre_?"

It was impossible, frankly (which was a joke of its own). It was sensational. It was... perfect.

Once he had caught his breath, England stood up and looked straight into France's eyes. France understood then, eyes widening slightly.

"_Mon petit_, my foot!" England barked. "Now what are you going to say, France?"

"_Mon petit fleur..._"

"Not!" England retorted, jabbing France's chest with his finger. "It doesn't not work when the other person is _just as tall as you_!"

France stayed quiet for a moment. England knew he had gotten him. At least, until France grinned.

"So if you get on your knees, you might have to dip your head a bit more to be right on–"

He hit France until France was on the ground and therefore shorter than him.

It was not long before France was taller than him again. England fumed for a while, because he had rather enjoyed being right at the same height as the other.

"Now_ I _am taller than you... what do you say?"

"Huh." England shrugged, not looking up from his book.

"What... it can be important when it is you, but not when it is me?"

"Huh."

He hid his grin behind his book. Well, at least he could still bother France. That did not change, no matter how tall (or short) he was.

* * *

_Frank – straightforward, blunt._

_The Franks – a Germanic tribe back in the old days._

_Oh, words. English words. You kill me._


	26. Sensuality

**Sensuality**

"What the hell? I'm not doing this with you."

"Why not? It is just simple meditation... I think we could both benefit from it."

"Based on the belief of aliens?"

"Ignore that part, if you must. Just... try it once?"

Somehow that managed to convince him. Getting him out of the suit he came in was a bit more difficult, but eventually the both of them were sitting in the room, robed, with England waiting for France's words. France rather liked the feeling.

"The first step is harmonization."

"What?"

"Just calm breathing, England. Settle down."

It took a very long time for England to unwind, but France deemed himself very patient.

"Relax your shou–"

"Focus on yourself, frog!"

Eventually though... eventually the tension was gone.

"Now to become aware."

"...what?"

"Just focus on the air in your body. Focus on your heartbeat, _mon ami._"

England looked at him suspiciously, but did not argue. For the first time in a long time they sat in near silence with no animosity between them. France's eyes constantly drifted toward the form beside him. A calm England... it usually took more than this. He tried to keep himself from smiling too widely.

"Now on to the body awareness."

"Like we aren't already?" England chuckled.

"External senses now. We focused on internal, now external. Close your eyes and feel your skin with your fingertips."

He had to close his eyes, or else England would not, but now he had no idea whether England was actually trying or whether he was just going through the motions. He assumed England was at least trying. At least, he did when he peeked his eyes opened to make certain.

"Now taste."

"What."

"To become aware of all of your ex–"

"All right, all right..."

The slight sounds which came from the other now made it hard for France to continue to think.

"Step four is meditation with the symbol of infinity... but that is the most religious part of this. We can skip it, if you'd like?"

"Yes, please. I am in a good mood without having to pretend to worship aliens."

"Very well." France's lips twitched upwards as he opened his eyes. "Now is 'another universe'."

England's eyes opened. "What?"

France held up his hands. "Just a massage, _Angleterre_. Do you trust me?"

"No," England said honestly. "Should I lie down?"

It was very hard not to kiss him, but France was able to keep the light touches light despite the fact his hands were running over bare skin. With another person, that would not be an accomplishment. With England, anything even somewhat soft like this, anything smooth and careful and gentle... it was a miracle. And England liked it. He liked it a lot. France could tell because of the change in his breathing, the flush on his skin.

France leaned down to whisper into his ear. "Now it's my turn."

England's hands were hesitant, but eventually began moving with the confidence France knew him to be very capable of. Still light, still gentle, and France wanted nothing more than to kiss him. From the proximity of England's face to him now, he hoped the other Nation felt the same.

"That... is it."

"Ah... I thought you said there were six of these activities? We only did four. Excluding the symbol one."

"I... didn't think you would want to do the last one."

"Oh?"

"Not everyone does it, you see."

"What is it?"

"Eroticism and mutual excitement."

England stared down at him with odd quirk of his lips. He leaned further down over France, lips pressed against his chest.

"I have half a mind to think you're making it up."

"By my honor."

"Well then." England ran his fingers up France's leg. "Show me."

* * *

_I did not know there was a religion like Raëlian. I am oddly fascinated by it. And these six 'activities' are outlined in a book (Sensual Meditation) were written by Raël, the founder of the religion. He is French, which is probably the only reason why I looked into it when I was trying to write something for this chapter._


	27. Faith

**Faith**

England was far beyond the point of substituting emotions for evidence. By this point in his history he knew that emotions would deceive – evidence could only be warped by someone's perception of it, but those facts never really changed. He finally understood Germany's ideals on this subject, despite all of those years of thinking the Nation was relatively insane for trying to block out the emotion.

Never block out the emotions. England knew better. But maybe... maybe for certain situations, it was better to only accept the facts and keep everything else relative.

"I need to leave."

For the twenty seventh time this year, this year which they had only managed to meet up for twenty eight times so far... for the twenty seventh time this year those words escaped France's lips.

"I'm sorry, it cannot take too long."

England would either scowl at him or smile and now he was not certain which to do.

"I will be back as soon as I can... all right, _mon chéri_?"

Every single example, all of the evidence, every single thing told England that France would not return, whether he wanted to or not.

"I will be here."

But for some reason, for some _stupid _reason, he believed.

And he waited.

He waited for a long time.


	28. Night

**Night**

All hatred should be postponed until daybreak. It took as long as it did for night to become romantic for France to come to this conclusion. The night, as dark and mysterious as it was, should not be sullied by thoughts of death and hatred. That was just too easy. It was too horrible, too wretched. Disgusting things like that were best contemplated during the day when one's imagination was less likely to run away with them.

But when England received Day, France realized that maybe some people needed the light as much as that darkness. People still needed wonderful things to happen while the sun was out. England had turned from the dark and was now trying to live in the light.

France was not ready for that. Not yet.

_If I could always be there for you, I would be. But I can't, so I won't even try._

He never said that out loud, because he knew England would probably punch him if he did. He would have every right to.

"Look what I brought!" France chimed in. England looked up from his desk and the ever growing Day scampered across the floor to his feet, where France set down the smaller creature he had brought.

"Pyrenean Mountain?" England asked with confusion.

"To distract your Sun for a while," France admitted as he sat on England's desk. "His name is _Nuit_."

England looked from the white dog named Night and the black dog named Day and laughed.

France managed to push back his jealousy of Day for just a little longer, letting Night save him. Letting himself take England's attention back for that night.

But the morning shown, they argued, and England attention was raptured by Day.

France's chuckle was bitter, but _Nuit_ came for him and he found himself forgetting his anger as well.

* * *

Nuit _= night._

_I would explain, but instead I will put up my next drabble and let you all figure it out for yourselves.  
_


	29. Day

**Day**

His name was Day. His fur was black, but despite that England called him Day. It just seemed to fit.

"What is that?" France asked him, looking at the small black fluff ball which Day consisted off as a puppy. Big brown eyes looked up at France and Day let out a few yips.

"A dog," England responded.

"You're keeping him?"

"Why wouldn't I?" England asked, honestly curious. France seemed to consider his words for a moment and did not respond.

England gathered Day to him and absorbed the warmth, despite the fact the puppy simply wanted to squirm. He was a strange looking collie, but England did not care much. He was told to move on from a night where the rain had stricken him numb and the boy he might have shot became a Nation. He was so tired of being heartbroken.

Germany had assured him dogs were a man's best friend. And as they represented men, it should be the same for Nations.

"I'm turning over a new leaf, closing the last chapter of my life, waking up to a new day," England said to the creature, who wiggled and looked up at him as if he was the most important person in the world.

Then again, England fed him, so Day would be right to think that.

And for once England did not mind this.

"You named him Day?" France asked, running the fingers on his left hand above Day as Day tried to jump up to bite them, running the fingers on his right hand down England's spine.

"What of it?" England asked defensively, waiting for France to misunderstand, to taunt, tease, be a general git.

"Fits him like a glove," France's words fell out as he closed his fingers and moved his hand away from the pup. Day stumbled over and into England's lap.

"Fits him?" England asked, looking over at France.

"He's like a sunrise right now. Unable to loose your attention. Then he will become ever present, always dependable. You will look and he will be there. Always."

England laughed because he did not know what else to do. France kissed his neck because that was what France did.

France would not be there, but Day would. Day would always be there.

* * *

_Prequel to Night._


	30. Innocence

**Innocence**

There was a man he wanted. England wanted him too, France knew this. They both suffered from the same affliction. All of this while the one they wanted it from did not understand the meaning.

Spain was very thick. France had never known someone quite like him, able to smile while the world was falling down around him, like nothing was wrong. As the world would rebuild, perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about, everything would be all right in the end.

Or perhaps Spain was simply missing that link in his head which made anything real.

"Oh, it's there," England told him once. "He knows reality. I took it from him, stained him red. Pretty in red, my Spaniard."

It made him furious to think England had done that, had taken someone who should be _his_. And he would go and do the same, while in the end Spain could face them both and talk as if neither of them had hurt him deeply.

England would brag again, ugly in his seafaring illness and France would try and kill him. Like one did. Nothing new.

"How did we become this?" France whispered, lips pressed against one of the many scars which littered England's back.

"We're Nations. We've always been this."

No, they had not. So far in the back of France's mind he could remember a time when it was just him. Before meeting anyone else, just him. And he was not _this_. When he was just _him_.

That time was a very long time ago. And as his people forgot the truth, so did he.

Finally there came a day that he could honestly not hate himself when he looked into Spain's eyes. His friend. That friend he had once so wanted, for whatever reason that was. By this point he was not quite certain. Which was when he would see England rest a hand on Spain's shoulder. Speaking into his ear quietly and Spain listening.

And it made him furious to think England would give himself up to someone else. When England should be _hi_–

France tried to cut the feeling off before it turned him into that monster he knew he could be.

But he was already this monster, was from the moment he had met another Nation.

"Come with me."

"Why, frog?"

"Just to do so."

He took England for a walk just to have taken him for a walk with no other imposing reason. But his mind came up with advantages and he had failed. England knew this and felt the same. France knew, for England smiled at him.

Understandingly.

Sadly.


	31. Music

**Music**

France was still in shambles when he showed up outside, the sound of the cello wafting up into England's window. England had been trying to ignore it, had been trying to ignore everything, trying to ignore the gunfire and the smoke and the flesh which he could still smell, feel, hear, taste.

By the sound of the cello was something he could not ignore. Something he did not want to ignore. So he moved to the window and looked out to see the Nation. Blood occasionally dripped down his arm and down the wood of the instrument, sometimes it would run down the strings, and the hair of the bow was no longer drenched in the remnants of rosin, but in the blood of the French.

"You idiot," England said quietly, his body propped upon his windowsill without the strength to move himself.

"A thankful idiot," France responded, just as quietly, so much so England barely heard him under the low thrum of the music he played.

"But still an idiot."

"Probably."

France continued to play in his quiet deliberation and England cried up where France could not see him, just hoping that the music would keep France from hearing it. Then he opened the door to let France in.

France fell to the ground, but the cello (shining red) fell over without a sound, perfectly fine.

Despite that, England brought the both of them inside and once more tried to ignore the scents, the sounds, the feelings, the tastes...

The sight of the broken man in front of him.

* * *

_Music therapy was used for the soldiers after both of the World Wars, but music therapy in Britain has become what it is today thanks to a French cellist named Juliette Alvin._


	32. Water

**Water**

The Channel had always been used as a barrier between himself and England.

England had always been particularly pleased about this. France never was. Even when he was angry at England, wanted the other dead, wanted the worst for his neighbor up north, the Channel was only a blockade to keep him from making what he wanted to happen happen himself. When he was in a better mood with England the Channel did the same thing, it kept them apart. England told him constantly that 'it was a good thing, or else you would be dead by now' and 'leave me alone because I am about to punch you in the face'.

1908, however, this changed.

"Have you ever wondered what a world would be like with no walls?" England asked him. France looked over, but England was not looking back, merely stroking Day who was near his feet.

"A paradise without privacy?" France joked in retort. England said nothing.

The next day France looked through _Daily Mail_ and found himself wanting to make anyone complete the goal England had set out for him. This was not about the money to him, though it would be for some people. No, this was not about the accomplishment either, though all who would enter would want to be the first to cross the waters in the air.

This was about removing the wall between them.

So in July, in warm rain, he ran to England's door. England opened with with a suspicious eye, but when seeing him simply smiled.

"Yes?"

"He made it."

"And?"

"You cannot keep me out any longer!"

The look on England's face said 'I beg to differ', but he let France inside and out of the rain. France could have sang, but he found himself more inclined to occupy his tongue some other way.

* * *

_1908, the London _Daily Mail _announced a prize of 1,000 pounds to the first man who could make the first cross-channel flight._

_July 25, 1909 Louis Blériot became the first man to fly across a large body of water (the English Channel) in a heavier-than-air-craft. However, this suddenly ended the English Channel's (which had always been Britain's first defense against invaders) ability to be a barrier against the outside world._


	33. Love

**Love**

He loved him. And England was certain France loved him in return.

They were just not allowed to say it.

Well, England supposed they could. However, he was certain that would break the spell which kept them together in the first place. The lulls in their constant bickering never lasted long. What they had now would fade away soon enough and they would be back to where they started.

What Arthur and Francis had would not.

Still, they were not allowed to break the spell with mere words. Those mere words which England wished he was allowed to say, that he was allowed to hear in return. It would not be worth the loss which would follow. So he stayed quiet on that matter.

But he just wanted to hear France say it _once_.

"_Angleterre_..."

"What do you want?"

"A kiss?"

Arthur granted that wish. Francis took complete advantage of the situation and took him out to dinner. His hand ever clasped in Francis' grip, leaving the both of them one handed to eat with, of which Arthur let out a few good natured complaints which were replied with agreement though it never really changed a thing.

"I have a proposal to make."

Arthur snorted into his glass, but Francis let go of his hand to pull something out of his breast pocket. He lay the small box on the table and Arthur nearly choked on his wine.

_Oh my God, he forgot we are already married._

"What is–" Arthur started, but Francis pressed a finger against his lips. That was when Arthur realized that Francis' hand was trembling, but not because of cold. The man was nervous and trying his best to hide it. Arthur hoped that Francis was not suffering from any sort of brain damage which would cause this to be a ring when he reached over and opened the box.

Therein lay a key. Arthur stared up at Francis in confusion before picking it up. Beneath it was a note.

_**Think about it.**_

_Oh, he had not. _"Francis–" Arthur began again, but Francis silenced him with his lips.

"I don't want an answer now," Francis said quietly, lips brushing against his cheek. "Take your time. Take a long time. _Sil te plaît._"

Arthur thought about it, knowing what his answer had to be. By the time France and he had parted ways, England was still thinking about what would happen if he moved in with France.

But he found that he was not as certain of his answer as he had been.

* * *

_Sequel to Happiness._


	34. Ambiguity

**Ambiguity**

France could really learn to hate the English language. Especially when England would use it against him. All of those words which meant different things, all of those meanings which could easily be turned against one.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," France quoted, trailing his hand up England's inner thigh. England closed his legs as if he was trying to crush his hand.

"Better safe than sorry." England bit through his teeth, only letting France go when he had apologized. England had _really _strong grip with his legs, of which France usually preferred being between.

That was _not_ expected. Plus, _s__ouris qui n'a qu'un trou est bientôt prise_ was _his_ saying! England used _his_ saying against him!

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he tried, before he left. England raised the book to his face.

"Out of sight..."

_Out of mind_. Ooh, that bastard! Just like when England was stealing some of the food off of his plate.

"_One_ man's meat is _another_ man's poison," France hissed. England smirked.

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

Or when he was arguing about being left out of the last Allies meeting.

"More's the merrier!"

"Well, two is... four's company; five's a crowd."

Then again, he rather liked using these sorts of things _against_ England.

"Look before you leap," England quoted, but France did not stop on his own conquests.

"He who hesitates is lost!"

During England's isolation from the world–

"Cross your bridges when you come to them," England grumbled in his house. France scoffed.

"Forewarned is forearmed!"

Or when England said "Actions speak louder than words," box held out, looking smart in his pressed suit, nervously waiting for an answer.

France smirked, speaking as he raised up the paper. "The pen is mightier than the sword."

'Non'_ means 'no'._

France was beginning to understand the appeal to some of this English language.

* * *

"Souris qui n'a qu'un trou est bientôt prise"_ is literally "A mouse with one mouse hole quickly gets taken" but is synonymous with the saying "Better to be safe than sorry."_

_I liked writing this one. Not just because they are both being assholes, just because I liked learning all of these sayings which could be used against each other._


	35. Act

**Act**

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players._ They were merely pawns in a greater scheme of things.

"If you were Human, what do you think you would do?" France asked him. He was sitting behind him, back pressed up against his. France's left arm was loose beside him and England reached back and groped for it to give it a light squeeze before replacing his hand in his lap.

"I would be dead by now. _We_ would be dead," England reminded him. "You long before me, old man."

"Old man?" France scoffed, tone obviously insulted. "It is mental age that counts, dear. I will always be younger then you could ever dream of being!"

His tone was insulted, but he was not. He had not stiffened up, he had not pulled away. Maybe it was because they were not looking at each other that France thought he could get away with that. Or perhaps he did not care to get away with that at this moment. Perhaps they were pretending to pretend and finally just admitting in silence that the both of them knew each other better than this.

"Since _you_ asked," England made his word hopefully jab back at the other, "what would you be like if you were a Human? Obviously your charm would be less, because you would no longer speak for an entire country. Probably a lonely, _old_, bachelor."

"_Moi_?" France sounded like he was smiling now. "I think I would be an actor."

"Oh dear God."

"You aren't even going to hear me out?"

England thought about it. "You just said, in a hypothetical situation, you would want to be someone who would always be pretending to be in hypothetical situations."

"I just said, that being who I am, it would be nice to be someone who could be anyone."

"You can be anyone, that's part of being a Nation."

"But in the end I will always be France."

"And in the end in this hypothetical situation, you would always be an actor."

England did not believe his words harsh at all. Not until France spoke once again, his words nearly dripping tears. "I _am_ an actor."

It occurred to England that France was probably acting right now, but because it was the truth and because either he was so good at it or actually heartbroken, England finally turned around to kiss him.


	36. Whew

**Whew**

England could just be so _tiring_. Most of his life France would be hard pressed to say anything other than the fact that it could only last for so long. Then again, there were all of those other hidden nights and shadowed day lit moments that England was also tiring in... but in which France enjoyed so much more.

Between the sex and the temper, France easily would admit (but only to himself, mind you, as it took him a long time to say it out loud to anyone) that both of them were quite worth the other half of the coin. After all, a franc only was worth anything if it had a front and a backside.

And by all that was good in the world, France liked that backside.

"What are you doing?" England groaned as France began kissing up his chest again.

"What does it feel like I'm doing?"

"Again?" the smaller man asked. France laughed into his navel.

"I have to take advantage of this now, _Angleterre_, before you change your mind~"

"You, sir, are an insatiable monster."

"And you, _monsieur_, are an exquisite dish."

England rolled his eyes, the movement contrasting with the smile he was trying to keep from his lips. "Do go on."

"_Volontiers_."

This was quite a common sight, nothing spectacular about the words which would describe the both of them. In fact, it was probably a repetition of things they had done before... again, again, and again. They filled up books, hundreds and hundreds of books, with so many chapters and more than half of them were the two of them doing the same things to each other over and over, with the same results, and unable to escape the inexplicable loop they were forever trapped in.

So yes, England was tiring in every way. France did his best to be the same.

"Stand absolutely still."

"Is it gone?"

"No, just wait a moment... hm~"

"_France!_"


	37. Anger

**Anger**

France could be absolutely terrifying when he was angry. The most frightened England has ever been were moments in front of the other Nation.

The most frightened England had ever been was with France, the other absolutely mad. The Revolution was not a success, he was fighting against himself. It was nothing like America fighting England off of his back. This was France tearing himself apart. France was not even threatening him. England meant nothing to him, as he rambled on about how he was so much better and was he not beautiful?

England stared in horror at the matted locks, the dirt stained fingernails, the blood clotted clothes and could not answer. Which was when France became angry. No, not angry. Furious.

The most frightened England had ever been was once tied up in the other's cellar, France letting his sword make patterns down his naked body. France spoke low, words a bare rumble in his chest, each word chosen carefully and accompanied by pain. England did not care anymore. He screamed more from fear than from pain, screamed and wished for death which would spare him from those eyes.

Afterward he would become angry. Angry for the fear and ready to do anything to make France feel worse than he did, something to salvage his own image, the sliver in his soul which France could use to wedge more fear inside.

The most frightened England had ever been was in an argument, where France told him he did not care what England really thought and frankly if he died it would not be a moment too soon because at least he would never have to see England ever again.

And then Germany had him. England could not see for his absolute anger.

The smoke from the fires of the Blitz might also had something to do with that and he would scream, wishing his fury would frighten someone. That his hatred would accomplish something.

It did not.

The wooden door had been swollen shut by the water damage and England found himself ramming his shoulder against it, hearing the words from beneath ever so clearly.

"I only returned the umbrella..."

"France! France!"

"_J'aurais dû..._"

"_France!_"

If there was one thing that later on that Lucas had correct, it was that fear led to anger, anger to hate. But hate could lead to anger and anger led to fear just as well.

And England was so scared.

"_**France!**_"

* * *

_Sequel to Regret._


	38. Dirt

**Dirt**

There used to be so much of it as he remembered. He used to walk barefoot through the woods just so as to sneak up on England, who had gotten used to hearing his shoes breaking sticks on his way there. His toes would spread out, all of those grains between them, and his England's sun kissed face would be streaked with it for he had been running for days just to stay away and had not bothered to do much more then pass over the top of a stream.

Dirt, these days, had such different connotations then they did back then. Back when they lay on the ground without much worry about the stains which would place themselves in the folds of their clothes.

"Now your hair is the same colour as your eyebrows, _mon petit!_"

"Sh-shut up! Your hair has twigs in it!"

France frowned, for indeed the other was speaking the truth. He ran his hand back through his hair, removing pieces of stick from his hair. "_Cher_, your cloak is caught on the log."

"What? No it's... oh."

France leaned over to pull it off gently, kissing England on the forehead as he did so. They, just as the dirt, had such different meanings back then.

Now dirt means dust. Dirt means grime. Dirt means disgust.

England met him in the main hall, where everything had been cleaned. The white was white, not gray. The wood shined dully with polish. Everything here was Human.

"You didn't even tie your tie correctly," England huffed, reaching forward without much thought and fixing it. When had this changed? When had the correct way of doing things, when had perfection, been something so exact? France did not recall fighting against this. This was just how it was. "Are you coming or not?"

They walked in the streets, dirt everywhere in sight. No, no dirt. Disgusting remnants made by their touch. Not dirt. Dirt was what they loved to lay on, which grabbing a fistful of was a beginning to planting a seed.

Instead of passing by the park, France found England suddenly ditching his shoes on the sidewalk and running into the trees. France found himself following, as he ever followed England.

They had different meanings now, but the feelings were the same.


	39. Trust

**Trust**

"Do you trust me?"

England inhaled deeply. The air was thick with steam, but it was cooling off slowly for the slightly cracked window. His heartbeat would not be anything other than erratic, it pounded in his ears and he could feel his neck pulsing. Every single footstep behind him seemed to shake the floor, trembling up through his bare feet which rested on the tile floor and through every single nerve end he consisted of.

He saw nothing, courtesy of the blindfold in front of him. He heard the tap being turned off, a few more drops of perhaps cold water now falling into the tub.

Those hands, long fingers, pressed against his back, nails slowly rising up his spine. It was almost a smooth motion, almost a caress.

"Trust me?"

England took another breath.

"_Fais moi confiance_?"

"No."

There was a light laugh let loose into his ear as he was pushed forward. England felt his nose skim the water before his head was pushed under. He did not struggle, he could not. He lost consciousness at some point and did not remember if he ever woke up.

"**Yes."**

**France snarled and a hand at the back of England's head plunged him under before England had a chance to take a breath. He struggled against the grip, which France easily was able to subdue. He inhaled water and found himself drowning, drowning...**

England felt his eyelashes catch on some of the fabric of the blindfold.

"Only as much as you trust me."

There was a light laugh let loose into his ear and France pushed him so that his head plunged into the water before England had a chance to breath. He turned slightly and found himself able to inhale steam, not water, floating on his back, suit now absolutely soaked. A hand was reaching to take the blindfold off.

"Leave it on, France."

"_Oui_." It was quiet and the water felt so nice. "May I join you?"

"You just better not be naked."

The laugh was not reassuring, but as France joined him England simply felt calm.

Maybe he did trust France, but only to be France. He trusted France to be unable to take a straight answer calmly. Just as he trusted himself not to know what he really wanted to say.

* * *

_This reminds me just how much I want to write a story which is like "Sliding Doors"._


	40. Heat

**Heat**

One of the things France hated the most was when things cooled off. When things between him and England cooled off... it was merely a prelude to the break off. This accounted for everything. Their fights, their friendships, their wars, their...

Just everything.

As long as he could keep it from cooling off, things would be fine. As long as he could keep England burning hot, there would be no threat of his greatest entertainment ever leaving him.

Except that England could switch off as fast as changing the tap to cold water. There would be a moment of indecision, but then all of the hard work he had done would be gone. England would have changed his mind. It drove France barking mad. He worked hard to figure out how exactly he could get under England's skin, anything in order to change England's mind back. But England always stayed stubbornly against him. As if he was purely happy doing whatever it did to make France miserable, whether it benefited him or not, had anything to do with him or not.

France just wanted to turn him up, set that fire, and burn. He wanted the both of them to burn away so that the evidence could be singed upon their very skin. There would be no denial then.

England woke him up, even being as quiet as the other could be, just by the shuffle of the sheets and the loss of heat. France rubbed his face, pushing his hair back so as to see in the dark England's form as the Nation stepped over the sleeping form of Night.

"England?"

A muted swear.

"Are you leaving already?"

"I told you France, I don't want to do this anymore."

France shut his eyes tightly.

"You promised this would be it."

He could not respond.

"We're friends, France. We always have been. But that is it. That should always be it."

"England..."

"I didn't plan on staying. I need to get back so I can feed Day in the morning."

Lost out to a dog again.

Long after England left France finally got out of bed, sitting on the cool floor and stroking the white fur of Night. He had lost out to a different searing heat. The one he knew England wanted to save himself.

It looked to be another long winter.

* * *

_I recommend listening to Katy Perry's Hot N' Cold. It is a great song for these two. Especially England._


	41. Summer Love

**Summer Love**

France had once walked three hundred miles to give him a rose. It had been in the middle of winter, a winter cold and frozen. Probably because the other had known that England would feel like he did not have a choice, having to let the other Nation in before he froze to death out in the snow.

When England decided to do the same, it was summer. There was no reason to do so. France had promised to return that day and they did not see each other for the beginning of the next year. England should not have wasted his time.

He walked three hundred miles for the sake of saying he had done so. And France was pleased.

"It's been a while."

"Too long, _mon ami._ Too long."

He stayed for a day and the sun beat down on them as it did every day of their lives.

He promised to return. Six hundred more miles on top of what he had already done. When England had promised such a thing, he had second thoughts. One hundred miles to home and he stopped to think. Think and wonder why he was spending the time, the summer sun beating heavily down on him in the other's country.

"Does it matter the season?" France questioned.

"Does it matter the manner of our arrival?" England responded over the phone. "We should drive. Fly. Ride. Something."

France laughed. "I will pick you up then."

"...are we walking?"

"We will do whatever you wish. But I am walking to you."

England lazed out on his porch and waited. Waited the time that France insisted on wasting for the act of saying he had walked this distance.

Then he left on foot, so as to meet him halfway.


	42. Patience

**Patience**

It was a skill France had specialized himself in. He had to, or else he could not have accomplished all of what he wished to. Patience was a virtue, after all, and with all of the sins he had committed, he decided that laying with a virtue could not hurt him.

The man who called himself Chauvin was here as party to French ambassadors. He had avoided the look of the one person he did not want to talk to, just so he could speak with Lord Palmerston. It took a long time, but he was quite adept at patience. His time was very different from the people of whom he was surrounded by on a constant occasion. What took a long time for them took barely any time at all for him.

The strangest thing was that he was going through all of this for a compliment. Actually, not so strange. The very man he was avoiding would be spitting mad to hear this had happened and he had missed it.

"My Lord," he bobbed down lightly before the Prime Minister.

"Ah... Mr. Nicolas Chauvin, was it?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_."

It was strange how life had brought him to this point, where he would be hiding himself amongst the English so as to stay away from the sum of them all, just to compliment the leader of them all. The truth was, he really did feel these words he was to speak. Probably why he did not want _him_ to hear it.

Small conversation gave the man who called himself Chauvin enough time to let his gaze sweep around the room once more. He was not here. Excellent.

"If I were not French, I would wish to be English."

Funny, how he had waited so very long to say that, if just to note the reaction, if only for England's reaction at a later date. France smirked.

Which was when another man whispered into Palmerston's ear. Palmerston just managed to refrain from smiling. France noticed immediately who it was who had given the silent comment.

"If I were not English," England responded, "I would wish to be English."

"That is without saying, _Angleterre_. Though I was hoping for a slight stretch of the imagination and less of an insult."

"Oh, it's no insult to you, frog. You came here in hopes of shocking me when I heard your words repeated by others.

Palmerston refrained a laugh again. "Another game between the two? I wonder what Louis will say when I mention it to him."

Both England and France tried to convince him otherwise, but it was there that France realized, as Palmerston merely listened to them without response, that despite their very short lives, Humans could be _very_ patient.

* * *

_Look up Nicolas Chauvin on Wikipedia, at the very least. Look at that and tell me could that just not be France in another one of his roles?_

_It is a tale that Chauvin did once say to Lord Palmerston 'If I were not French, I would wish to be English', to which Lord Palmerston replied, 'If I were not English, I would wish to be English.'_


	43. Opportunity

**Opportunity**

When England stood in front of the clock, barely standing upright in her empty room, it was gone.

It had been his last chance. Maybe he could have changed the outcome. Maybe he could have done something, anything, to fix what had happened. But now it was too late. Never mind it had always been coming. Never mind that there had been no way to stop it. That was not good enough for him.

He reached forward to swipe the dust from the clock face. This clock had long since stopped and England had forgotten to wind it. The time was two fifty three. England had to wait until then to start it again.

For ten years it was frozen. Two fifty three.

When he left there the first time he had planned on coming back the next day. He missed that window as well and came back a year later than intended. Wrong time as well, it was two fifty four.

"Get a new clock."

England stared blankly at him and left once more, promising himself to come back the next day, early in the morning. But he had to return to America, he had to take care of the boy he had taken responsibility of. And then when England returned, the clock was gone.

He flew into a rage, believing it to be France. Scotland changed his target though, by telling him he had to get over the clock. It was a clock. The room was no one's now and the clock was broken. It was not broken though, it just had to be wound. He just had to be right on time. It did not say the exact time, but England knew when it had stopped. When her last breath had left.

It had escaped his thoughts when he was struck down with the plague. Then the fire. Then the revolutions and rebellions. It escaped England's mind except on the occasion. He had to move on from his beloved, he had no choice. But occasionally he would weep for the opportunities he had lost. For the clock he had lost.

"You understand then."

It was not a question. France placed the clock in front of him. England stared at it with half lidded, eyes, unable to comprehend through his sleep deprived, water deprived, stupor.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be suffering at home in this wretched heat as well?"

This heat wave was worse to him, England believed. Better for France though, not so many were dying. He had learned his lesson from 2003.

"Please don't make me explain. I have never been in a right enough mind to give this to you."

The clock. Dusty, cracked, would never work again. Like the woman it belonged to.

"Why?"

France chuckled and sat down across from him, his shirt was only halfway buttoned. England did not care, he had ditched his shoes long before.

"Because although you have gotten yourself new clocks, none of them are in your bedroom. And when I stay over, I would like to be able to know what time it is without scrambling to find my watch."

England's fingers trailed over the clock face.

France's fingers trailed over his face.

"Thank you." There were no other words to say.

"I have lost moments as it is, _mon amour_. I will not let this one become another one to pile upon my regrets."

England might have kissed him if he had the energy. "I regret nothing."

"I doubt it," France retorted softly.

"I did what I could for her and she did for me."

"I just find it amazing that Elizabeth kept this clock I gave her for so long."

England looked up at him in surprise. "You find that amazing?" France nodded. England pulled the old clock to him, cradling it in his arms.

It was important to him for her, it was important to him for _him_.

He and France had lost many opportunities, but England believed that in a few minutes... at two fifty three... he could pretend to miss winding up a broken clock once more.

"_My dear Elizabeth... Nations are never allowed to fall into love."_

"_Really? Then I shall not either. I will have lovers, as you do, but I shall not love them."_

"_...but I have already broken this."_

"_I know Arthur. Which is why I keep this trinket I fancy he would have rather intended to you."_


	44. Death

**Death**

"_If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character... Would you slow down? Or speed up?"_

It certainly was the question he kept in mind when life went along on its roller coaster trail. What was death? Was it the end, or was he to be a new person beyond it? Would this new person be a better person then he was now? Would he want to be the person, as the person he was now?

It was a question of which there was only one way to discover the answer. But in light of it all, France took to answer it on a smaller scale.

He died when he left a room and entered another. All of the possibilities if he had stayed in there died. New ones arose from being here. He could reenter the room if he so pleased, but that would be the death of him _here_. The death of his _now._ That image in the corner of his eye which was not a woman dressed in white nor a skeleton in a black robe would take it away impassively. It would not be a joy, simply a task. It happened every second, millions of times. Death did not laugh.

Misery loves company, death does not.

France had come close to dying many times in his past. France had acted out death several times, the stage he stepped upon awaiting, the crowd watching in awe, whether in belief or respect. France was scared of the former, because he did not know. He relished in the latter, every eye upon him not looking at _him_, but who they currently believed him to be.

"You give yourself away too easily," England told him. France scoffed.

"Who am I to argue with living!"

England had his own fascination with death, one that France frankly did not understand. Nor did he care to. England could never understand his, so why would he try and break that mutual bond? The tentative string which the precariously perched upon, so ready for a gust of wind to throw everyone to theirs deaths.

And would another role await him? What if he no longer had to be a Nation? What if someone took his place? What if, for once, he was given the opportunity of becoming _Human_?

"_I would be dead by now. We would be dead. You long before me, old man."_

It snapped him out of his dreamlike state and he would meekly return to England. England would be confused (England was often confused), but (after a long period of time and so much work on France's part) would no longer question him.

"What do you think about death?"

"I think questioning it is stupid," England responded. "We live to die. As Nations it seems to take us longer, but everything gets their eventually. It is practically the purpose of life and we all will accomplish it."

"And then... we _fly_."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

France did not care. He would tempt the idea in his mind and cast it away when the reality came to close. After all, he was still on stage. He still had an act to complete. This charade had yet to finish.

France would never leave the stage until he heard the roaring applause.

* * *

_Sequel to Act. Quote by Chuck Palahniuk._

_To Meixue Zhang: Yes, you have my permission._


	45. Freedom

**Freedom**

They all came to this point. Eventually, everything died and turned into dirt.

Forty one years and now...

1776 was the be all end all for Freedom. It was the day America had drawn up all the papers, it was the day he had sent word that everything was done, he was gone, and England did not have to bother coming back to see him ever again unless it was as equals. England had been too distraught to think about what that had meant. America was free from him. Which meant that England was something to be free from. England looked upon what it meant to be English and tried to understand what was wrong with that.

To say he was heartbroken would be to say Noah built the ark to float in a puddle. His own people were upset, but eventually they moved beyond it. There were other matters to attend to. England could not move on. The person he had sworn to himself to protect, to care for, to always be there for... hated him. Left him.

For one hundred and twenty three years he suffered these thoughts. What had he really done wrong? Why could they not have found a better way? France teased him mercilessly and England felt like dying for the son he had lost, so America would understand.

For one hundred and twenty three years he struggled.

And then he had Day.

It had not been a conscious decision. England had never thought of having a dog, not since... well, that did not matter. He was trapped within himself. Day was free. Day could do whatever he wanted. Day was stuck in a wet wooden box in an alleyway.

"You are too young to know what to do with yourself, with freedom," England said, squatting down next to him, umbrella now over them both. The puppy shivered. "But that's what I told _him_..."

He was pitiful. England sighed, ready to stand back up and leave.

"What do _you_ wish to do with your freedom?"

That black pup tried to crawl out of the box. England helped him out and the puppy scrambled up into his lap, ruining his trousers with mud.

And that did it. England took him home.

"If you decide to leave I won't stop you," he said to Day, putting in the dog door. "Any time, you just go, all right?"

Day let out a small bark and went to destroy another pair of shoes. Of course England had to discipline that, but if Day did not like it, he could leave. Regain his freedom.

Day never left.

"_He's like a sunrise right now. Unable to loose your attention. Then he will become ever present, always dependable. You will look and he will be there. Always."_

And England was happy.

Then there was war. And again.

"We have been defeated. We are beaten; we have lost the battle," France almost whispered into the phone. England's words seemed to do nothing. Nothing he said calmed him, nothing he said helped.

He went to see France. France was scared, pleading, wanting him to do something, anything to help him. England wanted to say yes. He really did.

But at the same time Churchill was telling the Council that the decisive battle would be fought over Britain. And so he had to say no.

"_Angleterre... pourquoi?_"

It took too long, but finally, England decided to stop talking and start acting.

"You miss your friend, don't you?" England asked Day. The dog looked up at him and he stroked his hair back. "We will fight, won't we? To see both of our friends." Day licked his cheek.

And then came the Blitz.

He had raged against the dying of the light. He had raged against the burning light which ravaged him. Raged to no avail.

Forty one years and now... Day was gone.

"_Arthur! Arthur!"_ the fairy pulled at him. England was too exhausted to move. Spending all night keeping the fires from St. Paul's Cathedral had taken its toll. England was done right now.

"Please... let me sleep..."

"_Day came for you! Day came!"_

First England looked up at the black sky. Then he realized what Llyr was talking about. Never had he run so fast.

"Day!"

Day whined and did not move. England ran to him.

"Day! Oh, _Day_! Don't worry, I'm here now. Please Day, please. I'm here. Don't worry about anything. I will never leave you. I promise I will never leave you." England's hands had never seemed so small as when he was trying to stop the bleeding. "I've been so selfish again... let me save you, please... I love you, I love you."

He buried his face into Day's fur. He did so and matched Day's breathing for the entire minute before Day's heart stopped.

How long did he stay there? Long enough that it was morning. He remembered a night where he had fallen into mud and cried, the one he promised to protect leaving him.

Now he would remember the morning he sat in the ashes of London, sunlight streaming down over the one he wanted to protect him, as he hugged the body to himself and promised himself that he would do better again.

_I understand freedom, America. I understand._

The smoke from the fires of the Blitz might also had something to do with that and he would scream, wishing his fury would frighten someone. That his hatred would accomplish something. That Day's death had been for some purpose when England could not think of a single reason of why it should have happened.

And he went to find France. He fought the rest of the war a madman, just to end it. He barely kept his mind straight, barely kept it forward, the death of Germany the only thoughts that could permeate his mind.

When he finally broke into the house to find France, France was delirious. He rambled on things that England could not even begin to understand. It was only later, when sitting by France's bedside, did France tell him.

"_Nuit est mort._"

Tears came to England's eyes.

"So is Day." He took a breath to calm himself, but it did not succeed. "I wanted Day to save me. You wanted to save Night from something. We both got what we wanted then, did we not?"

"Some to save, someone to be saved by?" France responded, a laugh choked from his throat. "We could have done that with ourselves."

England sobbed. France seemed at a lack for words. Then, he spoke.

"But we did not. And I don't regret it. I do not regret that Day saved you from permanent mourning. I do not regret saving Night from the life he would have had if I had not had him. Just as you should be happy that you saved Day by giving him a purpose, where most people no longer give faithful companions such attention anymore. Just as you should be happy Night has taught me that sometimes... sometimes... I just want to run away and sometimes that is okay. Just as long as I don't leave anyone behind me. Just as long as you are grateful we have learned this."

England hugged him close and wished for a permanent sense of anything.

_I understand what freedom is, America. I understand... but I don't like it. I want to be chained to my emotions. I want to be chained to others. It makes life sweeter, it makes life bitter. I need these things. The romantic inside me needs these things, the realist in me suffers. I cannot live any other way._

_I am not a free person. And I do not want to be.

* * *

_

_Sequel to Day, Sequel to Night, Sequel to Anger, and Sequel to 2 a.m., which was a drabble from 'The World, Piece By Piece'._

"We have been defeated. We are beaten; we have lost the battle." _The words of French Prime Minister Paul Reynaud in a phone call to English Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who tried to remind the Frenchman that Germany had broken through their lines during the last war and they had been stopped, but Reynaud remained inconsolable._

_Any piece I write with Day and Night takes place between 1899 and 1944._

_Day R.I.P. 1899 – December 30, 1940._

_Night R.I.P 1898 – August 15, 1944._


	46. Healing

**Healing**

Perhaps it was only when England was wounded would he allow France to touch himself without any complaint. As long as they were on the same side, of course. By this point in their lives they were very good at being field medics to each other. Only a Nation could understand which wounds were important to tend on another Nation. It was not always what a Human would believe.

"Hold still."

France's voice was quiet as he applied pressure to England's hip. England did not make a sound, simply staring at the wall, probably feeling the waves carrying them away.

"We've failed," he finally said through clenched teeth.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

And it would not be the last time. England let out a hiss and France rested his forehead against his shoulder.

"What... is next?" England managed to say. France let his other hand, covered in blood, massage England's side.

"Finland, probably. We will catch up with America."

"I want to go home."

"I want to go to your house too."

England blinked a few times, managing to abate the pain enough to hit France lightly on the side of the head. "Wanker. Don't say stupid things."

He was hit for the comment, but not for pressing himself up against the other. France chuckled. "It may be stupid... but it is the truth, _mon petit chou._"

"Ha," England responded dully.

France kissed his cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Slightly."

"Then we had better move on."

It was perhaps very strange, what brought them together. What healed over the rifts which usually kept them apart. France hated war at the same time he craved for it. Loved the adrenaline rush, the glory, the victory, hated the death, the pain, the horror and screams.

He hated that England was loosing that fighting passion.

He loved that England was here with him, preferring his touch to bleeding to death. France remembered when England would have preferred bleeding to death.

Oh, how times had changed.

* * *

_The Crimean War, the Asov Campaign, the siege of Taganrog. The combined efforts of the English and French armies failed to defeat the army of the Russian Empire occupying Taganrog._


	47. Life

**Life**

The total rang up to twenty three pounds and fifty eight pence. Arthur had known he had just enough to cover it and after two £10 notes and three sterling coins later he was struggling to come up with the rest of it. It was embarrassing, yes, but the worst part was that he did not know what he should put back.

What occurred next was either the greatest breach in privacy or the kindest gesture Arthur had been given all year. An arm around his shoulder, another pound put on the counter, a head leaning against his own... all signs that someone was standing next to him and knew him, but Arthur could only agree with the first part. He had never seen this man before in his life.

"You should have told me you were shopping today! I wouldn't have taken what I needed from your wallet this morning, _cher_."

"Pardon me, but are you–" His words were cut off with a finger pressed on his lips as the man reached and took the bag off the counter.

Forty two pence were in his hand and Arthur was being turned away from the counter and out the door. Finally he managed to get a hold on himself and pull away from the stranger. "You must be mistaking me for someone else, I'm sorry!" He reached over and yanked the bag from his hands.

"Mistaking...?" the blond blinked at him owlishly, so very surprised. "_Mon dieu!_ My apologies."

"You better be." Certainly he was just being grouchy now, but Arthur did not like the too familiar touching of the other man. It was making him uncomfortable and Arthur did not react well with being uncomfortable.

"Then I must ask for my fifty eight pence back!"

Instantly his face heated. "What?"

"My fifty eight pence."

"It's not my fault you gave it to me!" Arthur retorted angrily. Seeing the other's eyes drift down to his bag, Arthur held it closer to himself. What was he expecting? What was he _doing_? The entire reason he paid in the first place was because Arthur could not... how was he expecting payback for that?

"True..." The man rubbed at his beard with a nod. "Do not worry about it then."

Arthur continued to hold his bag, wondering whether he should run for it. "...really?"

"Of course!"

It was when Arthur let his grip loosen that he was very aware of a hand on a part of him where _it definitely should not be_, a slight squeeze, smile, and the other was off.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur said, a few other swear words escaping him as well as he backed away. "Get out of my sight! Git! What on earth?"

The man simply laughed as he left. Little did Arthur know that Francis Bonnefoy was about to become a constant in his life.

Little did he know that soon enough, he would not mind it so much.

* * *

_This is just how it turned out. The prompt 'life' is so goddamn general. Even more so, I believe, than the others...  
_


	48. Joy

**Joy**

If someone were to ask him, there were plenty of things France would say made him happy.

There were evenings. There was swimming, there was theatre. There was the summer. There was literature, there were dogs. There was his silly tomato-obsessed neighbor, there was a day of sleeping in, there was fishing with Seychelles. There was a château in the south. There were airplanes, there was being barefoot, there was teasing Austria about his music, there was writing on stationary in a day of the Internet. There were verandas. There were museums, and swords, and emeralds, and roses, and spoons.

There was a chilled glass of chardonnay.

Some of these things could seem rather strange in such a list, but it was what happened with these things, at these places, about these experiences which caused France to remember them fondly.

Yet there was no greater joy to him than was found when just a few of the simpler things were combined. Things that always existed. There had always been evenings, there would always be summers. Summer evenings were pure bliss. Combine them with a few other things and ah~!

France had settled himself on the veranda, his glass at the ready when the unexpected visitor arrived.

"_Angleterre! Ce qui vous amène à ma demeure?_"

"I..." For some reason, England could not finish his sentence. France rose an eyebrow.

"_Oh là là! Vous avez besoin de me parler en anglais? Même si c'est pays de mon..._"

"Can I sit with you?"

France let drop his teasing behavior. For the most part. "As long as you do not want my wine, though it is superior," he waved the other next to him. Right away he knew it was a mistake. Whatever the reason England was here, France did not know, but as the Briton was _right there_ he realized what reason _he_ wanted England here for.

"I want you."

It was not the first time England had ever said that, though certainly France had never heard him say it like _that_, nor had it ever sent such chills down his spine. He reached for him, but England stopped him.

"No, wait. This was a mistake. I shouldn't–"

"You can't take it back now!" France whispered into his ear. England shivered. "Will you sit with me?"

England stared at him, face unreadable, before he kissed him, gently pushing France down on the bench. France had no idea what had brought this on, but the pure simplicity of it, the calm nature between the both of them, may not have been the epitome of bliss, but was something else entirely.

Pant. Moan. Lick. Suck. Touch. Arch. Whimper. Whisper. And the little things which happened between.

They would stop and simply sit, or lay there, or drink from that glass. Then they might continue. Then again, they might not. Their clothes found their way to the ground and France could only think about how long it had been since England had not cared so much about their surroundings in this action. How long it had been since England had not cared so much while he was sober.

And they sat there, lay there, entwined in more ways then would ever show. France... was happy. Was England?

"_Tu es beau_."

* * *

"Ce qui vous amène à ma demeure?_" = "What brings you to my abode?"_

"_Oh là là! Vous avez besoin de me parler en anglais? Même si c'est pays de mon..." = "Oh dear! Do you need me speaking in English? Even though this is my country..."_

_Prequel to Home._


	49. Passion

**Passion**

It was when they were not supposed to be together that they found themselves inclined to be so. The feeling was so utterly mutual and England would laugh as he kissed down France's chest, the smell of the grass they lay on overpowering that of the cities they had not long ago left.

They should have been arguing. They should have been hurting each other. They had done that and then moved onward. They would return to doing such things after this, England had no intention of lying to himself. France knew this as well. They threw so much of themselves, all of themselves into each of these different actions that it almost did not matter anymore. It was all of them, it was both of them, and therefore they were.

A small squeak escaped France and England, a bit more undignified, shrieked as they slid down the bank and were halfway into the creek. The water reflected the sky, so blue. As blue as France's eyes.

Now on top, France took his advantage and tickled him with one hand, the other pinning England's wrists above his head. England ran his foot up the inside of his thigh and used that as the opportunity to pull one of his hands loose.

It was almost too hot. This lazy afternoon would have been perfect to just laze in, but the both of them had different plans the moment they arrived, with their false words, gifts, lies, insults. Just for the moment though, they were beyond that.

The water was cold and England moved away from it, Francis chasing afterward. He hid behind a willow for a short time before the other found him and tackled him.

God, where were the lies they brought? The pieces of the cities they had brought with them? England did not care right now, not even for all of the cloth which used to cover him. Where was it?

_I don't care, why think?_

They spoke, words just as thick with their feelings as their actions were without actually having to say any of it. For a moment, England was going to forget his insecurities, his responsibilities, just to continue to through himself headlong into this. If just for right now.

The grass was above him, just as France was again before he finally just lay next to him. Nothing was quiet, not the birds, not the water, not the wind, not the breaths which escaped the both as they tried to catch themselves, despite themselves.

France pushed his lips against his ear.

"_Si tu m'aimais, et si je t'aimais, comme je t'aimerais_!"

Tomorrow this would not be the case. They would be ensconced with each other in another way. Would it ever be like this again? Maybe, maybe not. But today, just _today_...

Just today he wanted to know _this_.

* * *

"Si tu m'aimais, et si je t'aimais, comme je t'aimerais!" = "_If you loved me, and if I loved you, how I __would love you!"__ Quote from _Toi et moi_,_ Epigraphe_ by Paul Geraldy._

_This song was inspired by _Flora's Secret_, by Enya._


	50. Bliss

**Bliss**

"The highest level of happiness."

England was confused, France knew, but he did not turn his head. This was not the appropriate time for this conversation, but France was beginning it anyway. The wars they involved themselves in had them as enemies, had them as friends, almost switching so fast that France did not know how he felt like acting, let alone how he was supposed to act. It would be the same in the future.

"What is bliss to you?"

For the moment they were fighting together. It was not going to last long. France was not certain whether he cared. This was normal, this was what happened between the two of them. It was just their way. And either way he would be able to witness England's blood lust, his fighting passion, which sparked something within himself. He did not quite know the word to describe it. It was not good, it was not bad.

"You say to me it is physical."

This fight really had nothing to do with them, but they were here because they needed it to be. Fighting off people that barely affected them for a people who could care less about them. This was the Holy land and they did as they were asked by the Pope. Or was it? Were they just here for the spoils of war, to bring back things which would keep their dwindling kingdoms in some sort of glory? For the victory which would keep their economy going?

"You say to me it is from selfishness."

England was still so young. Growing fast, faster than France ever remembered doing. It made him want to grab him and shake him, make him stop, for the simple reason it was too fast for him. France wanted a single moment to stay still, if just to gather his bearings once more. Not that he would ever admit to such feelings. Not that England would understand them. Which was why he was speaking in English now, if just to pierce the blood which covered England's face.

"But is that not what bliss is?"

He realized the reason England was not responding was because while he might have knocked the Saracen's weapon aside the same had happened to his own, the _fideles Sancti Petri_ now struggled to breath from the grip around his neck. France beheaded him, because he could.

He lifted England back to his feet by pulling on the _crux_ of his front. England's sharp eyes caught on to his own.

"To be truly happy..."

_You have to have the selfishness to feel it. And I am. How I _am_._

Their kiss was all teeth and tongue.

Then they went back to the slaughter.

* * *

_On the Crusades._


	51. Dreams

**Dreams**

England only wished he could hide in his dreams.

He constantly heard other people speak about how pleasant dreams could be. A break from real life was sleep and one's subconscious could be opened to pass that time away. One's imagination could soar without the constraints of reality, the constraints of the conscious, upon them.

Then again, the Humans who printed these words did not have the imagination of all of history behind them. Compared to a Nation, a Human's imagination is rather limited in places, rather expansive in others. It means Nations had such different dreams, when they were not busy having the exact same ones. The science of dreams was not yet understood, so there was nothing to start with to guess why a Nation thought what they did.

Certain dreams sought England out. They would laugh at him when he shut his eyelids. The fairies would soothe him, but only for so long. Eventually England had to face these things on his own. Sometimes he could not do it.

Sometimes it was utterly worth it.

"What do you think the difference between a dream and a nightmare?"

"It is not obvious?" France questioned. England rolled his eyes and did not ask again.

The dreams he could control versus the dreams he could not. How come it was the ones he had say over which turned out so badly? The ones his conscious allowed him some semblance of grip on the real world with... they would splinter and laugh at him. England would wake up in a cold sweat. This was what he did to himself.

But the good dreams, the ones which went as they liked without any ability on his part... those were thoughts England never wanted to have. They were good... until he woke up.

England had no idea what he preferred, waking up with those _thoughts _or waking up in terror.

"Hush! _Mon ami_... it is all right... it is all right."

His bleary eyes focused on France, the Nation bathed in light from the fire. "France, what...?"

"The power is still out. Go back to sleep. Would the bed be more comfortable for you than the sofa?"

England shook his head and settled himself back into place. At least the thunder and lightning were gone. At least France was calm. France settled himself on the edge of the couch, petting England's hair. "Watch it, you frog."

"_Tais toi, Angleterre._" Those long fingers rubbed against his scalp.

England decided, for now, he would not complain. That could wait for morning. They could have that much time.


	52. Kinky

**Kinky**

There were few people who did not know of France's particular... interests, as it might be said. Those who did not were rather thick, especially to France's mind. It was not as if he was hiding anything. In fact, he did not know anyone who was as open about their fetishes. Not that he did not know what made most Nations tick by this point, it was on a need-to-know basis.

And France had needed to know.

No one needed to ask how French spies had gotten to be a staple of certain culture's entertainment. France was there and by the time anyone noticed him it was too late, or maybe he had already gone. Certainly there were some people who cursed him for this (even Hungary, though she was far worse than even he, he had to admit), but France did not care to much about that.

After all, plenty of them would enjoy it if they gave themselves the opportunity. They were just not open with themselves.

So nearing Valentines Day he had given himself an early present of England getting ready for a shower. The tie being loosened, the coat being shucked off and tossed over a chair. Shoes being kicked off, belt undone, shirt unbuttoned. Piece by piece, everything was discarded. By the time England had entered the shower, France was gone with no one the wiser.

Also, he was not the least bit guilty. He simply accepted what he felt and filled in that abyss with what he could. At least he could be honest to himself. And England in anything was always a treat, let alone England in nothing. France knew it all well.

At least, he _thought _he did. France thought he had himself all figured out in this area.

Then, after he had sneaked into England's house to wish him his own particular brand of Happy Valentines... he saw _that_.

"E... Engl.. England?"

The Nation turned, a faint pink blush covering his entire face and down his neck, at least, as far as France could see. "What are you...? Just stay quiet France! And don't you dare tell anyone, I don't want anyone else knowing I'm in this!"

The white parasol in England's gloved hands came down so as to block his face. It was too late though, because France had memorized every single detail of what he had just seen. Not that it stopped him from wanting to see more.

England was wearing a white and pastel green tea gown. He was also certain England was wearing a shift and a corset, but for some reason those two things did not mean nearly as much to France as the dress. Those long sleeves... the frothy front and the sleek train behind... and France was absolutely certain he saw pale olive drab mules which must have been eighteenth century.

He must have opened his mouth to say something, but his mouth was so dry and his mind so blank he could not get anything out.

"I... I lost a bet with Spain!" England moved the parasol enough so as to only mouth the words, as if actually saying it was worse than the fact it had actually happened. "Don't you _dare_ laugh!"

France blinked. He was trying to think, he really was, but all he could think about was how long he could keep that on England and exactly how those lips would wrap around his–

"...never mind. Laugh. Say something. God, you're freaking me out. Stop staring like that, it's not _that_ bad."

He realized he was staring down at the dress and managed to pull his eyes up on to England's face. England's eyes moved away as he tapped the now closed parasol against his shoulder. France moaned.

"What the bloody–"

France carefully pushed him back against the wall, pushing himself into all of that and lightly sucking on England's earlobe.

"France! France! What are you... _oh hell_, stop that!"

"_Non. Oh non. Jamais. Mon dieu, tu es... Dieu._"

"_Get your hand_– You're... really turned on by this, aren't you?"

For the next two hours, France could not get another comprehensible word out of his mouth.

* * *

"Non. Oh non. Jamais. Mon dieu, tu es... Dieu."_ = "No. Oh no. Never. My god, you are... God."_

_I feel somewhat wrong for having written this, but oh well. Sort of a sequel to Sexy._

_Happy Valentines Day._


	53. Haunted

**Haunted**

"_You used to..."_

The drinking would not make it go away, but England tried. It hurt, as if it were a fresh wound. It was no longer such a thing, but unless England managed to distract himself, it would feel like it.

France had stopped trying to take away his drink, instead now drinking with him. He insulted him and was insulted in return. England had no doubts that France knew exactly what he was trying to drown.

Still, at the end of the night, no matter where England ended up, that scene would play through his head, those blue eyes staring down at him when they used to look up with such adoration.

"_...used to be..."_

"We are made up out of our people, even the ones who have died," France mentioned once, face slightly red from the amount of alcohol he had consumed before England even arrived. Still, France spoke as if nothing had affected him. England could not begin to understand how that was possible. "We will never completely be rid of anything we have done, anything that has happened to us."

England downed another one. France swirled the beer in his nearly empty mug before draining it. They both put their hands up to gain the attention of the barkeep.

France was right, as much as England hated to admit it. France was often right more than England wanted to accept. At least, he would never say it out loud. Especially now, especially about this.

"_You used to be... so big..."_

For England knew the memory would haunt him until he died.


	54. Emergence

**Emergence**

One of the be all end all mysteries of the world was how an _ange_ had come amongst their midst. Despite the fact France might use that word in teasing, to make certain Nations blush, there was the absolute truth that one of them was an _ange_.

France was unable to believe it at first, but he saw the wings and gave chase. The _ange_, clad in white, ran in its bare feet through the woods without hesitation. For some reason (though who was he kidding?) the _ange _outran him and it was not long before France came across England, trying to speak despite the fact he had run out of breath.

"_Angleterre!_ Did... you see the one who... who just ran by... here? Did you see...?"

"What are you talking about? No one's been by here but for you... cease your tales at once, frog!"

For the longest time France believed that he had made it up in his mind. His eyes had failed to see just how out of breath the little England was.

When he was older he glimpsed the _ange_ again and once more gave chase. There was no reason to think twice about it. France was not even certain what he wanted, why he was trying to catch up to the creature. There was nothing in his mind which explained this feeling... but for the simple fact he wanted to see. He wanted to see this _ange_ and the face which adorned a being of the Heavens.

But the _ange_ was too fast. France realized only after the second time that running right after the winged creature would never work. Which left him with the predicament of whether or not to use trickery on an _**ange**_.

It did not take him too long to decide, even though he agonized over his decision later. Still, there was no turning back. He caught the _ange_ in a net, the scream from the creature about to haunt his soul for the next several years.

Even then he could not see the face. Those white wings had wrapped around the form – the form which looked rather too familiar. France could not study the body further, however, when he carried the _ange_ to the room of the house he was staying at he could bare to look at what he had done.

When he had dropped the form (much heavier than he had thought it would be) on the bed he pulled out a knife so as to cut the rope.

"_Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît._"

The wings shifted back as the _ange_ rose his head.

"You bastard," _Angeterre_ whispered, his eyes brimming with tears. "You utter, wretched, _bastard_."

France was so shocked he did not stop when the one belonging to those green eyes (_with that otherworldly light_) fled.

He did not see England for a long time. When he did... France did not know.

"How? What are you?"

England looked at him, slightly confused. "What do you mean?" It was as if he had no idea what had happened. France could not believe it, would not. So he went to find proof, struggling with England as he ripped the shirt from his back, the other screaming the entire time.

What was he expecting? He had seen England naked plenty of times and had never seen any signs of wings. But there had to be something. That had been England. He knew it, there was no way an _ange_ would simply look like the island Nation to France's north.

"It was you, I know it was you, don't lie to me!" France screamed, beating his fists against the floor, for once unable to take it out on the other's body. It had to have been true, despite the fact France did not want it to be. This was one thing he could not pretend he had not seen. He needed to know.

England gripped the ripped fabric to himself. "I... I'm sorry."

France looked up.

"Don't tell anyone. Please... Francis... for now at least, I'll... I won't do anything. I won't give you anything to keep this secret. But if you could... if just for once..."

"How?" France pleaded, the question the only thing he believed he needed answered anymore.

England simply smiled and shrugged.

Though France never promised, he never mentioned it again. Life went on. Occasionally he would see that _ange_. He knew he would never know how this was, what exactly it could mean... an _ange _an entire country, so many things at once. Eventually his goals changed.

_Angleterre _was his enemy, would always be so.

But no matter what it took, he would protect _Angeterre_. There was a piece of Heaven on Earth.

* * *

'Angeterre'_ was on purpose. I figured no one would mind a little play on words._


	55. Transmogrify

**Transmogrify**

Actually, neither of them were ever all that ugly.

England would never say that out loud to France, because of how appearance centred the other was he would likely gloat about it for years and then never let England forget it. He would say that England called him beautiful even though England only said that he was not _ugly_. There were a lot of visuals between ugly and beautiful.

France was beautiful, but that was not the point. The physical aspect of it meant little when it was so easy to see those ugly thoughts behind his eyes.

England knew there were similar looks in his own eyes. He was not overly bothered when it was himself. _He_ knew how far he would go, _he_ knew he would stop eventually, and _he_ was not afraid of the repercussions when they were so far in the future.

On the other hand... England had no idea where France stood on any issue for any length of time. It changed oh so quickly. One moment he would be playing nice and the next...

The next there would be that _look_ in his eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. In an instant they would be the most horrifying things England had ever seen.

"_Regarde-moi!_"

England would try to breathe in the musky air as France jerked his head so as to be able to look into wide green eyes.

England would try so hard not to look at the blue. To remember what they were, what they would be again, as opposed to the horror of them now...

His neck was bitten down on, hard enough to draw blood, and England screamed, managing to move his leg enough to as to drive his knee into his gut. Sometimes that would work. Sometimes he would get away.

But not this time. And those horrific eyes would stare down at him, accompanied by that smile and England knew, that in looking back, his expression was the same.

How ugly they both were.


	56. Magnetic

**Magnetic**

Maybe they were too similar. France had to admit that sometimes they did clash because of acting the same way, but for different ways. Still, if that was the case and they were more similar than they would wish to admit, what was the force that drew them back together so often? It was opposites that attracted, after all. Not the same sides.

_**Think about it.**_

Part of the reason he was so worried was because he had built an entirely new house. And in order to convince Arthur, Francis had take him there so as to let the other know exactly what it was he was going to be getting himself into. Not that Francis was nervous, no! After all, how could Arthur refuse _him_ of all people, at the end of all things!

Certainly his boss thought there was something wrong with his transportation systems because of some of his actions, but it was not his fault that the man had thought he had seen things which would make him assume that!

"Oh... Francis. It's grand." And with Arthur's well known penchant for understatement, Francis was willing to take those words and the breathlessness of the other as the top most compliment. Still, he was going to be modest about it.

"Of course it is! But, _mon amour_, you have not even seen all of it yet!"

"Yes..." Arthur nodded, staring about blankly. That look in his eyes worried Francis a bit, but he decided not too think about it too much. Arthur still believed he needed to say no. The longer he waited, the longer he made Arthur take to respond, the more likely that answer would change. So of course he took Arthur to see the bedroom and they spent quite a while in there.

Francis could not remember the last time he had been so entertained in bed, with his clothes still on, simply lying on his back with someone beside him, talking and staring at the ceiling. There was an inch of space between them, an inch neither of them even bothered to close. In Francis' mind, it did not exist. For they might have beens similar in many ways, but finally there was this that could draw them together. Maybe not permanently, no. But for now, for _now_!

"Do you still like it?"

"It's very nice."

Francis inwardly cheered.

But a few hours later, as they left and Francis locked the front door with his own key, Arthur did not say anything. And Francis did not ask. Was this a no? Or was Arthur still struggling with himself, struggling with that 'no' and with a little more time it would become a yes?

Was Arthur struggling against that magnetic pull?

Or were the both of them not as close as Francis had thought?

Francis did not push the question and simply wished for the best. After all, if it was meant to be... then Arthur would come to him. By this point in their lives, this is what it had come to.

He had fought, ignored, wooed, and simply _loved_ this love. Now he was finally leaving it up to Arthur.

* * *

_Sequel to Love._


	57. Surreal

**Surreal**

It was the Great War which had turned France into this bumbling idiot.

Not that he had not always been such. England could not recall a moment when the man had not been (which was a lie, but no one would force England to admit it if he never actually said it). Still, never had France's superficial needs become as great as the moment when he had declared 'being too rational' as something he was avoiding.

"This is not real," France would hum as he threw himself headlong into some other strange project.

"Yes it is!" England would shout after him, furious beyond an ability to convey it properly. "Get back here! Bring your head back into reality, France! There is nothing over there worth it!"

For while England may have been a romantic, he could file that feeling away where it was appropriate. There was no such thing as being 'too rational'. There were times when emotions were more important, yes England believed that, but not in there being more rationality than was necessary. In fact it was the lack of people being rational which started wars. It was passion, it was misinformation, it was being silly which started wars.

Up until now England thought that at least France would understand this. But that did not seem to be the case. And when the War was over England thought that France might return to being able to think about these things once again.

"Look where rationality has taken _him_," France said during a quiet dinner. England did not have to ask who _he_ was. The one that France now had making clocks. "There is something to be said about rationale and war."

"There has to be said something about excessive _emotion_ and war," England retorted.

"The emotion of being too passionate in your own logic," France rose his glass for a toast.

It struck England that these thoughts had always been an undercurrent in France and that he still did not agree with the other Nation about it at all.

"Aye, the logic of being too passionate in your emotion to avoid it." England rose his glass.

Still, he could understand the sentiment. He could accept, for once. He went home to consider his own artwork.

"_This is not a sky._"

True enough, it was not.

* * *

_World War I took the writers and artists in Paris and scattered them, causing many of them to become involved in the Dada movement. This movement caused belief that excessive rational thought and bourgeois values had brought the terrifying conflict upon the world._

_'_Ceci n'est pas une pipe_'. True enough, Magritte was correct. Her picture was an image of a pipe, not a pipe. Try thinking about that for long._


	58. Passage

**Passage**

France was never quite certain what to say. After his boss had decided that silly treks across the Channel should be banned, he had decided to agree wholeheartedly. It was not as if England was cut off anymore, he had already proven that. Swimming that distance? Driving in an amphibious car? These were absolutely preposterous ideas.

England seemed to think it was humorous though and so people would start it on his end. America had a lot of fun with that.

"You too?" France asked Austria. Austria shrugged.

"What's wrong with it?" Austria was out of breath from the long freefall. France had not known he had it in him.

The source of the problem, however, was England.

"Some of your people came to my beach."

"My people go to your beaches all of the time," England responded. France almost wanted to drop his point just to make fun of how _dirty_ that could sound. He struggled with responsibility.

"Over sea?"

"Of cou–"

"By _car_?"

It took England a moment to catch on, but the island Nation merely smiled. "Those blokes at _Top __Gear_. They are absolutely priceless, you know?"

"We have the Chunnel."

"I know."

"We have planes."

"Your point?"

France had been certain that when one of his people had crossed the English Channel by plane for the first time England had been as happy as he. Now he was certain that England was trying to shove it in his face.

It was ridiculous.

* * *

_2007. Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May (from the BBC programme Top Gear) 'drove' across the Channel in cars they had modified to drive on water. They lost two cars on the way and a coast guard called them irresponsible, but eventually they made it from Dover Harbour to France._

_I agree with England. Top Gear rocks._

_Sequel to Water._


	59. Lush

**Lush**

Occasionally England would let go, forget about everything he usually upheld, and just go by his gut feelings. Unfortunately, when he did so, it was usually when he was in a less than pleased mood. And it always came to the music scene. The absolutely ridiculous outfits that half of the time he would enjoy and the other half of the time get rid of, pretending he had never worn them.

Despite having a left-wing president, France seemed to enjoy it more than ever when he was being _hypocritical_. Gentlemanly-pretense gone.

"Fucking bastard–"

"Right on _both_ accounts~"

France would dive straight into it. Whether he was mocking him or not, England was not certain. At the time he did not care to find out. He simply took it as in insult because half of him wanted it to be. And being angry at France was something that would never change. It was comforting. It balanced out the fact that France could always make himself so fucking _fuckable_.

And England would be so _irritated_, that he would simply give in to the primal urge of shutting France up in whatever way was fastest. Which was usually giving in. Giving in to anger, so his irritation, to the feelings that he did not understand and therefore he could not hope to describe it enough for anyone else to understand.

_'No one understands!'_

It was true enough, especially if the one feeling it did not understand.

"I understand, _mon amour_. You want to scream out, fight against everything you know is not really working for you, but you cannot. Not in real life. So you have made this fake one in order to pretend."

England would have slapped him. _No. I do not know if what is happening will actually work. I have not paid enough attention to be able to tell. And this is not fake. This is not pretend, it is just an outlet. And outlet of _me_. It is all real_.

France had it completely wrong, but England let France press up against him as he continued to snog him back. At the very least he was using some of this energy now, which could no longer be used on something he might regret more than this. His anger could be used against France, instead of himself.

Then later, he could deny everything.

Though France was so very desirable, he would always say those words – those stupid words.

France had missed the point.

* * *

_Lush = British slang term to describe something pleasing or desirable._

_Excuse England's angry (erm, more so than usual?) chapter... Who does not like writing about the angry teenage groups of the latter twentieth century?_


	60. Could Have

**Could Have**

"What do we gain by this?"

It was an honest question, though not one France would have previously asked for fear of a less than honest response from England. But he was tired. He was tired and England was tired and they were older than they used to be, when pride was everything and showing off was the same as surviving. Those times were long past. These days, if something went wrong, they were not alone. The help might be self serving, but no one was really that alone.

It was just another argument. Another argument as they were so used to doing. An argument about something stupid, about something no normal person would care about. They may have not been normal by anyone's standards, but they had their own standards. These standards told them they should not care about this as much as they were.

England looked him over. "Nothing, really, I suppose. Why?"

England said it with no conviction, little care, as if it really did not matter. This subject did not matter and the fact they were fighting about it did not matter. "Are we really wasting the time about something that gives us nothing?" France questioned, appalled by the sentiment. He could be accomplishing something. They could be doing something else. They should be–

The other Nation shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. "You want to leave?"

France considered this and considered what England was waiting to say. "No..."

"Then why not?"

France blinked. England laughed.

He began to wonder whether England was wrong. That maybe they gained a lot from these stupid things which appeared to have no meaning. This time, however, he did not question it. It was pushed into the back of his mind to be presented as another possibility in the future. A missed opportunity.

Or was it an opportunity grasped?

France was not certain. He did not like not being certain.

But it would be left for another day.


	61. Would Have

**Would Have**

_To France,_

_I hate you. I hate you more than anyone has a right to hate someone. Actually, I take all of the rights to hating you because no one could do it better than I. If there was a degree in such a subject, I could pass the class without setting foot in the same room as the teacher._

_Actually, the teacher would be _me_._

_If I could kill you I would. I have imagined life plenty of times without you in it and have come to the conclusion that things would be much less angry, much less confusing, and much more simple if you were not being the ass you cannot help but be._

_I will not take any of this back. Ever._

Struck out words, pen dabbing dots on the page, mind searching for the right phrases.

_And I love you. I love you, you stupid, horrible, bloody frog. More than anyone has right to love anyone. I could not explain it, even if I wanted to. I did imagine life without you in it. It just would not be worth living in. Let alone I would be a little too far away from Europe by that point. So you better stay there or I'll nail you there. If you want to take that as something lewd, be certain to know that I mean nails made of iron and it will be your own pain if you want to act on that._

_I cannot even finish a letter without insulting you more._

_Maybe I simply hate you and I am just confused. I doubt this. I have had far too long to think about it. So France, please just read this and realize that I am definitely going to kill you for any comment made on this horrendously sappy letter._

_Not that I would usually call something like this sappy, but between you and I, I believe this is as deep into that stream as either of us can honestly manage, this point in our lives._

_God, this hurts. Little did you know this would be the thorn you have driven in me that hurts the worst. If I could remove it, I would, have no doubts about that. I would cast these feelings away from me as quickly as possible._

_If I would, this world would be so much more tolerable, would it not?_

_I don't ask for your love, partly because I think you are incapable of it and partly because I am certain this would hurt worse if I did. Actually, this letter is just so you know where we stand and what I expect from you._

_Which is nothing more than to _stop_ filling my bedroom with chocolate._

_Sincerely,_

_England_

In delivering this, England watched as France tried to molest Switzerland, though to no avail.

And then he ripped it up.


	62. Should Have

**Should Have**

He had not thought twice about it. England was grouchy, as usual. France was pretending to ignore that and insulting him, as usual. They were in one of their capitals, as usual. Today it was London. He was to talk to England about something he had no inspiration to think about and it was just the insults passing between them once more.

France had not thought twice about it when he twirled his own umbrella around, looking over at England's umbrella. It was black, plain, and simple. It was a surprise that England had an umbrella at all. England seemed to go through phases of caring whether he was wet or not. Phases of having an umbrella, carrying just for the sake of the weather, and ignoring it, leaving it at home and walking through the rain of which was as much a part of him as it was anyone, but so much more. Still, England was carrying his umbrella, wearing something new, and that was when the impulse struck.

Reaching over, he yanked the umbrella from England's hand and ran off, laughing the entire way.

"France! _France!_ Get back here, you bloody git! Give that back!"

As soon as France had made certain he was out of sight, the umbrella had been folded up and put away. He had not thought twice about it and now he was lost in the London streets.

Thinking back upon this, what he had done and now where he was, France had not meant for this to be a big deal. He had not actually meant to loose England. He had not meant to loose himself. But he had and he would make the most of it. It took him thirty minutes to find a street he recognized and five more to return to where he had ran away.

Twenty five more minutes to return to England's house and return the umbrella, victorious grin on his lips, awaiting the response he knew he would get from the infuriated Englishman.

The door flung open after a single rap of his knuckles against the wood of the door. "You."

"_Moi_," France agree, watching the still-dripping England with much amusement. "Your umbrella?"

"Twat!" England snarled, ripping it from his hands. "What was that for? You're not getting anything out of me now!"

"And I was before?" France questioned with mock surprise. England scowled.

"I want you gone. Go home, France."

By this point, however, France was no longer listening. He was watching the water drip from England's hair. He was watching the way the man's shirt strained with each movement, clinging to his shoulders and chest. Those eyes, flashing with framed liquid.

"_Comme tu veux_," France smirked. With a wave of his hand, he was gone. Another act which would infuriate England, if he thought correctly.

From the corner of his eye, he watched as anger dissolved into regret.

He had thought wrong.

* * *

_Prequel to Regret._


	63. Hunger

**Hunger**

England had gone through all kinds of drugs. He would deny it, as he should, but he had been through the phases. When it was considered good, to when it was considered bad... England found himself high in the mind of it and no longer restrained by even himself because he was barely there to be strained.

What was he anyway? A Nation? There was land, there were people, there was money for that! He was not there, he was not there at all!

No, wait. Yes he was. That was just a thought he had once had, it was not a fact, it was not based on anything. England pushed that away from himself as he would push away these recreational consumers and pretend that it never happened. As if it had been solved. All of the Nations were pretending that was the case. That their occasional forays into these substances they should not be using never really happened. But the evidence was always there.

Except for this.

England was such an avid user. Not an addict, for he could always stop if he wanted to. But why would he want to? Why would he ever stop? His ink stained fingers ran over it and words fell, dripped, from his lips and he felt elation as no one could ever dream of.

Why had he tried any of those other things? The were nothing like this. They were not good enough, they were simply attempts to make people feel like _this_. He was above everyone, everyplace, everything, everything...

"England!"

He would stop, book shoved under his cloak and candles extinguished with a puff of air as he turned to the door, just as it opened. England was calm, knowing he could pretend that nothing was happening. "..._yes_?" he asked. "_What do you want_, _Francis_?"

"I thought you said you would... you're wearing that wretched cloak again." France sighed, rolling his eyes. "Never mind. I will try and find something edible in your kitchen myself."

"_Don't break anything_, _frog_, _or your paying for it twice over_."

"If you say so... Is there something wrong with your eyes?"

"_No_. _Go_ upstairs, I'll rejoin you all shortly."

"...if you say so."

It was difficult to blink away the vestiges of magic, but England did so to keep his secret. The consuming desire to devour these words and release the power.

England did not see anything wrong with it.


	64. Need

**Need**

It was something he should have never asked for.

France had stayed absolutely quiet on the subject, never speaking the secret no matter what. It was almost as if this fact existed in another plane of existence. They no longer believed in Heaven but in times of need. They no longer believed, but that did not change what England really was.

Maybe there was a pattern to when _Angeterre_ appeared, but France was not in the know enough to understand what that could possibly be, if it even existed. Still, when he arrived early to a Summit meeting and saw England's things on his chair but no England, he had gone off to tease the Nation about leaving his things unattended and came across the _ange_.

What he said simply slipped off his tongue. Not even France would have been as presumptuous as to ask this knowingly.

"May I kiss you?"

The entire thought was confusing and it brought along every other thought he had had about the subject.

This was England, even if an 'angel' (as England might have called it), was he not? Certainly there were those wings and his entire presence had changed, but... it was still England. England had known it was him when he had caught him so long ago, England had been the one to ask him to keep this under wraps. So this was basically England.

Right?

Was it just the emergence of wings that was the difference? Was the persona of England simply a ruse to hide an _ange_ that no longer believed in a God?

France was not certain. _Angeterre_ looked surprised. Then annoyed.

"No!" he retorted, as if France had said something very stupid. France felt as if he had said something extremely stupid. Still... his curiosity refused to not be sated. "Why would you even ask?"

"I know we spoke about this." He spoke as if he were actually speaking to England, or at least he tried. It was difficult not to stare in awe, but he managed. If this was England, _all_ England just with wings... then it was still just the both of them, right? "We are just friends, I know, but... I need this, just once."

"Just once? It's never just once with you!"

With that response, that irritated and cocky response, France's doubts were cleared. It was England, to be certain. One hundred percent him. Not just a piece of him... and England was not a part of the _ange_. They were both the same.

Which sort of answered his actual question, but France was not going to let it go now. He kissed England, despite the wing and the fist which struck him in the head.

_Angeterre_ kissed just like _Angleterre_. Of course, it was now obvious.

And that night he cried, arms flung about _Nuit,_ for the reason that now he would no longer be allowed to kiss either angel or Nation again.

* * *

_Sequel to Emergence and Heat._


	65. Want

**Want**

Throughout his life, there had been plenty of things that England wanted. When he was younger, he would simply take them. Which worked out perfectly until suddenly there were other people, people who owned these things, or who wanted them as well. Then he would fight for them. Fighting turned to diplomacy, arguments.

Then, suddenly, finally, there was never enough of what anyone wanted for anyone to have it.

Having _someone_. Someone was never something he could own. Back when there were slaves... even then. One could own someone's body, but the mind was never something that could be contained. Even when he asked for everything they knew, to hear every single experience and thought they had ever had... he could never had that. Even if they wanted to give it, it was impossible. Emotions never could be conveyed in words. Never well enough.

More than anything else in the world, people always seemed to want some_one_. It was stupid. England knew some of the happiest people were those who were complete on their own. Complete on their own, but that did not mean they could not be with someone. They could be their own person, complete, and be _with_ someone.

To be completed by another person, the thought was stupid. Everyone was their own person. England believed this, thought this, knew it to be the best.

But... because he could never be complete on his own... it hurt.

Oh, it hurt.

He was not even a Human being. He was a Nation. The same rules could not even be considered to be applied to him. So what was it? What was he missing? Why would he even consider that it would be another person who would be what would complete him? Another Nation? Or just a Human? It was just all too confusing. So much more than what any Human would have to think about.

When he arrived in the south, it was with this in mind.

He did not know what he would want in the future.

But right now...

Right _now_... England felt hollow.

"_Angleterre! Ce qui vous amène à ma demeure?_" France purred, as he always did in that wretched language of his.

They were Nations. Nations were not perfect. They could never be perfect. "I..."

"_Oh là là! Vous avez besoin de me parler en anglais? Même si c'est pays de mon..._"

Humans, so individual, were closer to perfection than they were. Nations would hurt forever. "Can I sit with you?"

"As long as you do not want my wine, though it is superior."

For now, though, he could try not to think about it. Just for now he could want _this_.

"I want you."

And it would be all right. Right?

...right...?

* * *

_Prequel to Joy._


	66. Take

**Take**

It was what he was supposed to do, as a thief. He was supposed to take things. The definition would not even be in the guidebook, because it was so _obvious_. Yet here Francis was, again, sliding in next to someone to... to what?

The man's name was Arthur Kirkland. Francis knew this because he had once stolen a wallet. He had stared at the photo, which had for some reason pushed in the appearance of the Brit (_those eyebrows!_) into his mind right about when he had looked into the billfold.

Arthur had just come from the bank, yet had less money than Francis currently did. And Francis had just started work today. The next thirty minutes found him trying to return the wallet in the same way he had taken it. No one would ever say he took from the poor! Even if on first appearance Arthur did not give that impression. Maybe he had been mistaken and Arthur had put money in instead of taking it?

No. That was not the case at all.

This was not taking. Nor was it giving. Francis was not certain what it was, but it was not going to stop him from doing it.

"You! Again?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Francis chuckled, sidling up to Arthur's side as Arthur took a few steps away. "Have enough to pay for the groceries?"

"Bugger off!" he flushed, scowling. It was hysterical. But deriving amusement was not really taking anything.

"Bugger you off? An interesting prospect~!"

"Ugh!" Arthur left, as he always did. Francis really had wasted enough time, had he not? Following after the man was not something he should do. But do it he did.

He had not meant for this to become constant, but soon enough Francis supposed he was taking something a little less substantial than usual. And that was all right.

* * *

_Sequel to Life._


	67. Have

**Have**

"What is the catch?"

England grinned. "There is none. None at all." And he was telling the truth. England was simply surprised that he had not thought about this earlier. The both of them stood there, France staring at him as if there was something terribly wrong with it.

"Really?" France asked.

"Go ahead," England waved ahead of him. "You can have it."

"And what will you do then?" France continued. England could tell that France was trying to be smooth about it, but the entire fact that they were discussing it meant that it was bothering the southern Nation.

"Find something else," England shrugged, slowly turning. He started to walk away.

"Wait!"

_Got it._

"I don't want it," France said nonchalantly.

"Are you sure?" England asked, making himself look slightly surprised. France scoffed, turned on his heel and left. After all, if England suddenly did not want something, that meant there had to be something wrong with it.

England grinned once more and when he was certain France was out of sight, he plucked the book off the shelf.

Pretending he did not want to have the last copy on the shelf was an excellent way of making sure he would get it. He would have to implement this action more often. Without France knowing what he was doing, of course.

Advantages were really difficult to not overuse.


	68. Mine

**Mine**

Saying it was one thing. Making it become truth was something else.

"You are mine."

England scoffed, France could just barely see it from over the top of the newspaper the island Nation was reading. "Don't start this again, please. We've gone thru this fight plenty of times. I'm getting tired of it."

"What am I supposed to do?" France exclaimed, his suave comments escaping him, because they had long since no longer mattered. "You won't accept any of my explanations, you will not listen, you will not agree, and I cannot find a single path down which you will find my words to be correct!"

"Maybe that means they are not correct."

"Maybe that means you are a stubborn ex-hooligan."

England glared at him, setting the paper down on the table. "Why are you _here_? This table. This teashop. This city. My country. Any of those. Why?"

"Why are _you_ right across the Channel?"

They both glared at each other. All the while France tried to come up with something. Something new something different. Something that would convince England that... that...

"You can't just come to me whenever you want me and then _claim_ me. How many territories did you loose in the past with that sort of mindset?"

France sat down across the table from him. "I suppose," he said wearily, having given up. England glared at him. Again. For whatever reason.

"You're an idiot."

"What?"

England stood up, setting down the quid to pay for his tea. "Goodbye France."

"Wait! I agree with you and you just call me an idiot?" France exclaimed, standing up as well. England hesitated, then nodded. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Doesn't it?" England murmured, then shrugged. "Goodbye France."

France spluttered indignantly, but England left. Really, he did not know why he even tried! He could have gone southwest and tricked Spain into something interesting! So why– _why_...? If he did not know any better, he would have said that England was upset that he had given in.

"_Rosbif_!" he exclaimed softly, staring after where England had left to. Damn, England could be so infuriating.

_Why_ did he try?


	69. Yours

**Yours**

As a Nation, England knew how difficult it was to give themselves up. It was instinctual to fight until pain wracked the body, until death of their own self was a possibility before a Nation would give up any part of themselves. Maybe this has changed over the years, where giving up a little has suddenly become painless. Why not? There possibility of getting it back tomorrow was high.

This was just how a Nation was.

But then why was it so easy for England just to let go, give in, push aside some of the most important things to him when it came to this idiot?

Hm... probably for a future profit that his subconscious understood.

_Don't get me **wrong**._

"You waited," France commented, sounding slightly surprised. England smirked.

"Well... I figured '_why not?_'"

"Ready for a long night?"

England pretended to consider it. Obviously pretended, just so as to either annoy or worry the other Nation. "Maybe. I might just have to go to bed early. You know... without _you_."

_I'm **not** falling for you._

They easily tired of the subject of politics, for the first time in years. They ended up bickering about France's latest fashion trends, which England thought were a load of bullocks. Of course, to France, England did not know what he was talking about. It was nothing new. It was comfortable and dinner therefore passed by pleasantly.

Much to England's surprise. Was France surprised? Probably. Though while he was very expressive, France could also mask those emotions with other emotions. Cover it up, as opposed to England who just tried to feign indifference.

"You are being rather charming and polite today," France commented, raising England's hand up to his lips. "Tired out of being mean and nasty from your meeting with Denmark?"

"He _was_ the first frog," England commented with a smirk, noting as France covered a flinch.

_I'm letting **you** fall for **me**._

It seemed just natural that they ended up here, like this. Normal. For whatever reason. "_Ngh_...! France..."

"_Angleterre~! P__arle le français__ pour moi. Pour moi!_"

Like hell he would. What did France think he was? England tried to think about that, but found it difficult. His mind was slightly against the idea of multitasking at the moment.

"_Angleterre..._"

"France?"

"_...pour moi?_"

"_Bâtard. T'attends quoi? Une invitation écrite?_"

_There's **a** difference._

Spent, he entwined his arms around a pillow, trying to push a stubborn France out of bed. "...get out of my house..."

"..._non_."

He gave in quickly, like he had earlier. Because he was tired, of course. No other reason. There was no other reason. "You leave in the morning, you hear me? I want you gone before I wake up."

_...**I** don't get **hurt** this way.

* * *

_

_The Danes were called frogs first. Then, when England decided he hated France more, the insult transferred. The eating of frog's legs probably helped it catch on. Very original there, England._

"Parle le français pour moi" = _"Speak in French for me."_

"Bâtard. T'attends quoi? Une invitation écrite?" = _"Bastard. What are you waiting for? A written invitation?"_

_Prequel to Almost. Which is not actually posted yet. Go me!_


	70. Lugubrious

**Lugubrious**

Pretending to be something he was not was very easy for France. Certainly there were to some depths he would not stoop, but if he chose to he knew he could. It was a mask which fit perfectly to his face – any role he chose would not be beyond his grasp.

So surpassing the role was not difficult either.

"Get. Out."

England was furious. France had caught that from his face. He knew he had several options to take now. He could become angry in return, but oh that would be too easy. Maybe he could appeal to England's always so ready libido (and England commented on _him_!). But he chose another option.

"I... I see." Turning his head, he made certain England could not see his face.

"...yes." There was the hesitation there. It was already working! Francis covered a smile as easily as he breathed.

"Goodbye, England. I'm... I'm truly sorry." Tears came to the corners of his eyes and England was obviously trying to keep up his decision. But this was not like ten years ago. England was incapable of being cruel without feeling right now. Maybe that would change, but as thing stood right now...

"You..." England started, before stopping. "Over doing it. A lot."

"_Quoi_?" France asked, blinking as England was once again furious.

"I should have known when you started crying, you wine-freak!"

"Was I lugubrious instead of simply mournful?" France considered. With a long exhaled stream of air, England slammed the door shut. Wait. He _overdid_ his acting?

"Hm."

Not overly bothered, France went out to the theatre to pull of a _Cyrano de Bergerac_.

* * *

_Lugubrious = exaggeratedly or affectedly mournful, perhaps to a ludicrous degree._


	71. Lubricious

**Lubricious**

He took France's breath away by wearing a goddamn dress.

At first England was really irritated. All of this time he had spent wondering how exactly he would be able to make himself stick in that moronic Frenchman's head and it was the least sexy thing he could have ever thought of. A dress? Not even a revealing one at that, just an antique he had in his closet. Something he had lost a _bet_ to have to wear. England would never have chosen to wear something like that, not in a million years.

Actually, it had only been about a hundred or so years... but that was besides the point. He was an English gentleman and gentlemen did _not_ wear dresses!

It was what he had been looking for though. That look on France's face. What he had been trying to do for so long, he had accomplished it. Yes, he had accomplished it by demeaning himself. At least, England thought it demeaning. He was England! He had been such a great _Empire_!

Now he was putting on another modest dress just to get a reaction out of France. Oh well, no one could keep up the Empire routine forever anyway. Plus, this was one of the few things he could do to directly get what he wanted without having to deal with France teasing him.

France could not get his tongue to work well enough unless it was on or in England, it seemed. Not while he was wearing this.

"Modest," England grumbled to himself, pulling the dress carefully up to look at his pantalettes (_Pantalettes?_ _Really?_) before pushing the faded blue back over his knees. Hell, G-strings did not even get the same reaction! Just lewd comments and sex. It was not fair.

At least the corset did wonders for his posture. England had been slightly worried that he had been slouching too much. He blamed America.

"England, what was it that you wanted..."

England found himself not caring about what the corset did, now looking over at France who had finally entered the room. France had not even had the mental capacity to close his mouth as he stared at him.

England no longer cared that he was wearing a dress. "Sit?" he offered, gesturing to the chair across from him. This time, knowing what was going on, he could watch as France's eyes followed his hand as it moved, then ran up his arm to his torso, almost as if he was drinking him in.

Yes, he no longer cared that he was dressed as a woman. Not that he was starved for attention, not at all! Just... just...

He had no idea. All England knew was that he was the only thing existing in the world for France now and it was about bloody time!

The other Nation did not take the seat, simply walked up to England and dropped down to his knees, taking one of England's hands and pressing a kiss to the top of it. "_Chérie, tu– tu es... tu es ravissante ce soir! Ravissante..._"

Kisses were being pressed up his arm and a hand was stroking his ankle. England relaxed.

"...I have you now..." he whispered.

Who knew how long this would attract him for, when France would get over this and it did not mean as much, but for now England had him for himself.

* * *

"Chérie, tu– tu es... es ravissante ce soir! Ravissante..."_ = "Dear, you– you... you look beautiful tonight! Beautiful..."_

_Sequel to Kinky._

_I just realized I had not put this up. I feel bad, I had this (and a few others) done a while ago. Eh, it is just a drabble, after all._


	72. Perspective

**Perspective**

From the top of the Eiffel Tower, everyone seemed so small. From here, everything appeared almost like it did when France stared down at his body or at his face in the mirror. Hundreds, thousands, of people – in a place much smaller than it appeared.

It was difficult to keep his words straight at times. This was his foot, the border. That was a sneeze, a falter in his economy. The corner of his mouth, his paparazzi. Staring into a mirror showed him everything on the surface of what was France. A grey hair that would be gone tomorrow, whether he saw it and pulled it out now or not. A bruise from when he tripped last week, nearly gone now but may be darker and sore tomorrow. A nail which had grown longer faster than all of the others on his hand.

The unspoken truth.

_'Just put your hands on me,'_ England's eyes dared. _'Try to tame me. Let your government try to subdue mine, control mine, make mine agree with you.'_

_But is there a part of me that simply wants my hands on you just so I can touch you?_

What was to say that all of France was contained in him _(Francis?),_ but that all of him (_Francis!_) was not contained in France?

_Cannot I, _Francis,_ touch him, _Arthur, _without France touching England?_

From the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, it looked so big. He was so small here. _Francis_ touched his arm, rubbing at it as if it were sore though it was not. Somewhere there was this structure. Somewhere.

But it was also just an arm.


	73. Capering

**Capering**

"A picnic?"

France stood there with that smile on his face and England considered saying no. Then he considered the free food. French food, yes, but free food nevertheless. Plus, he could always leave if France tried anything.

"Who all is coming?"

France seemed to consider it for a moment. "I don't know yet."

England rephrased. "Who all have you asked?" And the look he was given in response told him it was just him. Which should have given him the prompt to decline, but England took the thought of free food again and therefore said yes.

Neither of them had said it, but England could agree that people did not do this enough. The randomly inspired quiet things. Oh, others did their inspired actions, their random actions (mostly loud though, stupid America), but both of them together? And quiet? People wanted too much to be noticed nowadays crazy prompted acts were loud.

England could not remember the last time he had gone on a picnic. He took the sudden invitations to lunch occasionally, but a picnic?

It was nothing but them sitting there eating. For once France had not ruined something with talk. Though the Nation seemed about ready to ruin it with his hand, so England moved his foot to place on top of it, the threat that he could push down lingering between them.

"Let's play a game."

England rose an eyebrow. "Let's hear what it is first," he responded cautiously.

What France said next was so utterly ridiculous that England might have declined after he had gathered his breath back. Maybe it was today's spontaneity and this picnic, but he found himself saying yes.

At the end of it, he almost did not want to return to his work because he felt too much like he was a child once again. A child without the worries of everything he used to worry about as a child. France with his hair mussed out in public and him for once not noticing or caring.

"Worth it, _mon ami_?"

Yes. Yes it was.


	74. Voice

**Voice**

The phone rang.

If it had been an hour previous, France would not have picked up. He had been busy. He would prefer to still be busy now, but his bed partner seemed content with cuddling and he had decided he liked that idea. They had both fallen asleep and he had dreamed.

Still, he got up, quickly making his way over to the phone before it could ring again and possibly wake her up. "_C'est de la part de qui_?"

Then came that voice. "...France?"

"_Angleterre_?" France questioned, voice quieting near instantly, simply from habit. "Why are you calling? Do you know how late it is?"

"I know... I know how bloody late it's, frog," England responded, voice halting. France glanced back over toward the Nation in his bed, then at the wall.

"Are you all right? You're crying. Or are you just drunk?"

"Prolly," England responded. There was a sound of something being dropped on the other end of the line. France leaned back against the wall.

"Couldn't this wait until tomorrow?" he questioned. "America's birthday isn't even until then. We can talk then. You could drink then. Unless... you aren't going?"

"Why shoulda bother?" His words fell over each other, nothing graceful about it. France found himself drinking it up. "There's jist... um..."

"You are hopeless," France sighed, unable to put the venom into it that he wanted to. England was crying again. Why had England called him? There was another voice on England's end and France could not tell what was said, but England did not respond. "Who's with you?"

"Who's?" England slurred. "Nothin'. _Ah~!_ We're just drinkin'... Denmark, _off_."

France felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomache. "Did you sleep with him?"

"Dun sound like that. It wouldn' be the firs' time."

"_Angleterre, s'il tu plaît_." _Don't do this to me_.

"I canna understand you. Wha'?"

Staring back at his bed, he tried not to imagine what tonight would have been like if _she_ was not there. If it had been England instead. Denmark? England was really going to do that to himself again?

He said nothing. It took two minutes (two minutes of silence where that voice did not haunt his ears) before England began to sob again, quietly yet amplified into the phone.

"I... I called you earlier... didn't pick up..."

He watched as she stirred, blanket falling off of her naked form and on to the ground. "I can't talk now, England. I have... a guest in the other room."

"A guest!" The words ghosted out of England with a force only England could manage, a force that made France want to take back his words.

"Come to the party tomorrow. We can talk then."

"Fer you to throw your help in m'face again? Throw America in m'face again? I dun think so!"

"England..."

There was silence again. Was England still there? France almost spoke again when England responded. "I had a dream about you... Francis..."

**Click.**

France pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. He heard his name being called, wishing him to return to bed. France tried not to wish that England was the one who was saying his name.

He put the receiver back in the cradle and went back to bed.

* * *

"C'est de la part de qui?" = _"Who is calling?"_

_Which one of them hung up? I will leave it up to you._


	75. Almost

**Almost**

"I thought I told you to leave."

He did not receive a reply, as France was still asleep. England stared sidelong at his bedfellow as he considered the previous night. When France woke up, he would comment on his temporary weakness. England did not consider himself weak – if he were at any point he could not have survived to this day. He did not have permanent weakness.

Then why did this keep happening? What was this weakness that England could not just say no (to France, to himself) and stick with it?

_Get out! No, stay!_

Running his hand up France's arm, England swallowed. It was not a question that he wanted France to leave. Whether now or later that would be his feelings. It was not a question that he would want France _here _again. No matter how much he wished it to be otherwise. This weakness... was it a weakness. Maybe, just maybe, it really was...

France stirred, that arm reaching out to clutch England around the waist. "_Mmm... petit déjeuner_..." France's mouth teased a nipple. England tried to push his face away.

"No." _I am trying to understand. Please stop, I am trying to understand __**us**_.

The Frenchman did not stop and England gave in.

Later, England dissolved into tears. It had seemed so simple. It had seemed so easy. And then he had lost it.

* * *

_The word on the tip of your tongue. What if you had once chance to say it, to know, to remember, and then it was gone. You will never remember your exact line of thought. It will be gone._

_Sequel to Yours, though I wrote this one first._


	76. Always

**Always**

There were very few times in which France could ignore the sound of thunder. It was the sound, not the lightning. The lightning merely made it worse, as he waited for that sound to follow. That sound – as if God was tearing reality apart. As if he had caused such anger in some way, even when he knew he had not done wrong. Prussia's fear of biting winds. Spain's fear of harsh rain. Both were overtaken by the overwhelming phobia France suffered.

Thunder.

"Where are you?"

France barely heard it. He was busy trying not to cry. Trying to no avail, as the tears silently streamed down his cheeks. England kept calling.

"I thought you said you came to see me, frog! Where are–"

The flash. France could see it thru tightly shut eyelids. England's shriek was simply the surprise of a small child. When the thunder arrived (_God's anger_), France's scream was the sound of someone being torn apart.

"France?" He was slightly aware of the little hands which tried to pry his hands off of his face. "What are you doing here? It's–"

Another flash. France whimpered and clung to the new Nation, though England tried to protest. "_Ne me quitte pas ne me quitte pas ne me quitte pas–_" France muttered the words right up to the point they were drowned out by thunder.

France did not remember when England stopped struggling. He did not remember when the boy fell asleep in his arms and he did not remember when he fell asleep, the storm finally past.

"Scaredy cat~"

"_Oui_," he had to admit, the taunt not really bothering him.

France could not say he knew what was going thru England's mind then, or even later when they were no longer just teasing each other. No longer children. They struck to subdue, to control, to kill. When that rumble (_that anger_) was heard... There were few times, few fights, when France was so imbued with blood lust that thunder did not matter. That took so much blood.

"Shut up, shut up!" England commanded, both swords dropped and France's face pressing against England's chest. "It's a sound, a sound! A sound will not hurt you. Shut up! _Shh..._ I'm here..."

Those last words were always said when the thunder rolled, as if England did not want him to hear it. But he did. One time France caught it and he could make it out ever since. A simple sound could plenty well hurt him, France knew. But he did not dispute it, simply clung to the one point of stability in the storm.

And _now_. Now they would argue. "Why are you even here?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" England was flushed. If France did not know any better, he would say England had a fever. But if England had a fever he would not be bothering him here. England was not the type to make himself suffer more with _French_!

The thunder came without the lightning. There had been no warning of the... the... sound? France found himself instantly pale and England's hands gripping his arms.

"Stay calm."

France bit his tongue to keep from screaming, especially as the storm dragged on, especially as they lost power. With shaking hands, England lit the long-since-used fireplace, match taking several strikes to light. "England?"

"What do you think the difference between a dream and a nightmare?"

France hesitated, thunder rolling over them. "It is not obvious?"

England was not looking at him. France almost thought he was nodding in agreement until he realized that England really was about to pass out from fever. A flash of lightning. France clung to him as the thunder came once more. Blinking away tears, all he could think of to do was settle them both of the couch.

_I will stay calm. Why can't I stay calm?_

So he escaped it and slept. When he woke up, it was over. The sounds had done nothing to him. England was right. It passed and he was fine. In a daze, he cared for England until he was able to comprehend everything easily once more. England fidgeted in throes of a nightmare as France relighted the fire.

"Hush!" he told the distressed Nation. "_Mon ami_... it is all right... it is all right."

"France, what...?"

"The power is still out. Go back to sleep. Would the bed be more comfortable for you than the sofa?"

England shook his head and settled himself back into place. France settled himself on the edge of the couch, petting England's hair. "Watch it, you frog."

"_Tais toi, Angleterre._" England seemed to return to his sleep, France watched him do so. "Why are you always here for me, _mon amour_?"

If either of them knew the answer to that, however, what would there be left for them to fear? France chuckled, dreading the future sound he knew that would scare him to death.

It would not be thunder.

* * *

_That last part was a partner piece to Dreams, if anyone even remembers that chapter._


	77. Surprise

**Surprise**

He could not decide. For the life of Arthur, Arthur could not decide. For the life of _England_ Arthur could not continue to stress about this to decide. Which meant he had to give Francis an answer. But he still had not decided on his answer!

Arthur could not face Francis until he had decided. Still, that was not a choice he was allowed to have. They were Nations and therefore each of their well beings came first... a well being according to society. His boss assumed England would tell him of the nuances if he knew of any. England had never told any of them everything, not since his dear Elizabeth.

"France."

"England."

France was pretending as if nothing was wrong. Francis had not actually asked anything of him since asking whether he wanted to see the house. Just see! See a place that had been made for the both of them! Not whether Arthur had made up his mind.

England had to pretend it was not there either. For now. At least they were not alone yet, though each other their groups could tell there was something wrong here, something different between their Nations. England could not tell them why, it was none of England's business.

France appeared to be rambling some response to his Prime Minister, but it was in such quick French England could not translate it. So the meeting went on. As if nothing was wrong.

Collecting his things afterward, France sat down beside him. "You look beautiful today."

England flushed. "_France_," he said thru gritted teeth, glancing about to where the humans were. Leaving the room. England was not certain whether or not to be grateful for that.

Obviously he was not certain of a lot.

"A kiss, before you go~?"

Before England could respond France was kissing him. England found that his hand was now stroking France's hair, he just could not help himself. Stupid France, for having such soft hair!

"Chips for lunch?"

"Oh, just shut up," England retorted, kissing him again. _I want to say yes, but can't. I want to say _yes_, but can't. Damn you, you frog. Why did you put me in this position?_

England felt his chair tip and leaned back in it before he would make it fall over. France rested his head in England's hand.

"I love you."

England smirked, about to respond when France continued.

"_Je t'aime. C'est toi, seulement toi, que j'aime. Juste toi._"

And England froze. Those words he never thought he would hear. They shocked him right out of and then right back to composure. France pressed a kiss to his wrist.

_I want to say yes. And I _am_ going to_.

"England...? Why are you crying?"

_You and only you, Francis. Forever you_.

* * *

_Sequel to Magnetic, Sequel to Honesty._


	78. Sympathy

**Sympathy**

It was so easy.

If anything, France wished he was less sympathetic. It was a terrible trait for a Nation to have. It was too Human. Pretending to be sympathetic was one thing, but actually feeling something for another when they were in pain was out of the question.

France believed that. Then he realized something.

"I pity you."

England growled in response and attacked, making him a creature that France no longer felt sorry for. France had found the perfect way of saving himself from the feelings of sadness, which was telling the person in question that he felt that way.

They thought he was lying, but it did not matter. After he said it, he was. And he was no longer confined with the feelings which tore at his soul, that cried out to help someone other than himself. That was the way to kill a Nation. Make them want to help another. They would forget themselves, over stretching their resources to help someone else while they themselves suffered. The Nations knew better then that. France knew better than that.

Ignore the pains in his soul, let his physical condition control his actions. It was the way to live.

And England would scream his primitive, his modern, his advanced, his everything and attack him. No matter what his condition.

France would ask himself why a part of himself hurt when he had to hurt England, anyone, even in self-defense. Then he would remember himself.

"_Je te plains._"

And he would turn himself into a creature that no longer felt sorry.


	79. Empathy

**Empathy**

All he wanted to do was acknowledge. It was so easy to feel what it was he saw.

Anger. England was good with anger, whether in war or to himself he could scream his ferocity. Their ferocity. Contentedness. Something England could simply soak in, pretend he was Human and that all could be well. Others believed it and therefore so did he. Sadness. Where was the check on himself to keep himself from crying when he saw others do so?

Fear.

It was so easy to give in when he was surrounded by it. Maybe it was the collective behavior of a crowd, the public, the mass that he was composed of. So similar, so different.

Apathy was such a tempting path. But empathy also gave him the ease for retaliation. One person lashed out at him, angry. He understood.

He became angry.

"England, what are you doing?"

"None of your damn business," England retorted, staring at himself in the mirror. France leaned against the door frame. In the reflection, England noted that either France did not care or that France had covered up any reaction that had welled up with his response.

France was a good actor like that. England envied him.

He also thanked him.

England turned about, raising an eyebrow at France's dress. "Going out someplace fancy, are we?"

"In fact, _oui_," France nodded. "I thought of inviting you, but it would be classy and you look rather a mess right at this moment."

England smirked, barely smarting at the insult. France returned the gesture.

It was so hard to give in when faced with his best friend, his worst enemy. It was so hard to give in to anyone after any length of time faced with France. England had been a child subjected to so many whims based on the emotions around him.

Now he was himself. Or close enough.

* * *

_It is possible to be too empathetic. Which is distressing, considering how many people seem to lack the basics of empathy._


	80. Warmth

**Warmth**

France's eyes were shut.

It was a lazy day. The heat was not terribly uncomfortable if he kept himself sprawled as he was on the couch, the sun streaming through the window and landing on his form, but not in his eyes. While France often enjoyed simple pleasures, this just happened to be one he had missed for the longest time. Why could that be when it was so comfortable? He was not certain.

"France? The others wanted... sod it, are you asleep?"

France did not move, not wanting England to ruin his peace. The other did not say anything, but France knew he was still in the room. He had not heard footsteps moving away. As time dragged onward he could hear the quiet breaths from the Englishman who was still in the room.

What was he doing?

France kept his eyes shut.

"Typical."

The word was ghosted into the air. France was not even certain if he had made up the word or if England had actually said it. England thought he was asleep then. France did not want to disappoint him, as soon as he could he would drift back off into oblivion and stay there comfortably until he was forced out of it.

Those footsteps moved closer. France could not even ready himself for defense. Not that he and England were over childish games...

The sun was blocked and it seemed much colder. Still France kept his eyes shut.

Warmth pressed against his lips, then it was gone.

"You look like you could be innocent when you're like this. That's funny..."

And there went the footsteps. Had England just kissed him? Just kissed him and left without doing anything more?

He fought the blush creeping on his cheeks, hoping England was far away, hoping England was not seeing him like this. Despite himself a hand came up to cover his face.

There was no noise.

But he kept his eyes shut.


	81. Heartache

**Heartache**

The first tattoo England got was supposed to hide a scar France had given him when he had tried to kill him so long ago, spent after a rough evening in the Frenchman's bed. Why did he even remember? He had so many scars, he did not remember where he got every single one of them, whether they faded or not.

It was like he was trying to hide a permanent pain, one he did not know where it lay.

"I saw you in there the other day. What were you doing?"

"None of your business," England retorted. France blew smoke in his face and England scowled, swiping the cigarette from his mouth and sticking it between his own lips.

"Embarrassed, are we?" France smirked.

"Please," England rolled his eyes. "Take a hint and get lost, frog."

It was strange to think that France would know exactly what England was trying to cover up. France's mind was nothing like his and England was never certain what the idiot would remember. Certainly not that. England felt strung out just by thinking about it. He would bow his head to move his eyes out of the small stream of sunlight which tried to blind him.

_he remembered scars and blood where they would cry with the passion of battle cutting through any who opposed even if it was the other cracked skin from burns and his tongue wetting his own cracked lips_

Those days were not too long ago. Maybe getting the tattoo was a mistake.

It was during a Friday evening where England had slipped and let himself drink too much (_France had brought out a bottle of rum from who knows where and it was so reminiscent of..._), France taking advantage of him near instantaneously. England only realized it after his shirt was off and had hell trying to push him away, say in a clear enough voice 'no'.

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est_?"

England glowered down at him and grabbed a couch cushion to cover his side. "Do... you like it?" The question had to be the alcohol talking. It was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on France.

"No."

Something felt like it broke in him and England kicked France off the couch. He forgot his shirt, but went out and drank more. He did not remember the rest of the night, but unfortunately he still remembered that sunset. The smile on France's face with his rejection. _"No."_

_Fuck him. Fuck him to hell. Who cares what he thinks._

It took him the entire duration of his headache before he found that he really believed that. Life went on. He coped and he wondered why he was not doing more than cope sometimes.

"_De thé_?"

"Please. Why are you in my house?"

"Hm..."

While what France thought was not at the top of his head, what he thought of France was. It was a simple curiosity, but in every way he realized they came back to this. Whether hating each other or in toleration, it came back to this. Was it because he was just across the Channel? It had to be. It was because he was the closest one other than his brothers. Off the Isles, France was there and England had to cope with that.

England got another tattoo soon after. Maybe it was to prove that he really did not care what France thought. Which actually worked, he liked the fact he had it and did not care whether France saw it or not, liked it or not. Maybe it was because it was the sort of time he was in, a time that kept changing and this was not him keeping up, but him changing the times in the first place. Saying that the times changed was stupid. The concept of time was a facet of people's imaginations, something mankind made up. What changed were things, people. Him.

Yet... _yet_... he was always capable of being hurt. That stayed the same.

"I'm not scared," he protested, in the corner of the room at one of America's stupid parties, where France had cornered him for conversation. "I just don't want to be alone."

"Loneliness _is_ a fear, _mon cher_," France assured him, as if his words could be assuring. "Remember Day?"

His latest permanent pain. England did not need France there to know this. France sat down next to him as the party continued to thrum. "I knew he would always be there if I looked... you know?"

"Yes, I know."

"He was so bright, so warm."

"..._oui_."

"Do you want to ditch this and drink?"

"_Oui_."

They were Nations. They were always recovering from something, getting into something else, forgetting something, and warping something else completely out of the form it was originally intended to stay in. They were always creating, wrecking, becoming, leaving. Hiding one thing or another with rather fake covers.

"I like this one," France commented in the morning, finger poking into his newest tattoo, thankfully not new enough to be sore. England groaned and hit him in the head with a pillow, because he was not ready to be awake yet and France was being an arse, waking him up just to say that.

"_We're friends, France. We always have been. But that is it. That should always be it."_

He had failed in his resolution again. England did not remember when he began allowing France close in like this again. Probably because he wanted something warm to lie next to him. Maybe because he really did want some approval – not from France, but just from somebody. How come that was never it?

Being an entire race of Humans meant permanent pain.

"France?"

"Yes?"

It was not happiness, but being an entire race of people meant there was permanent hope as well.

"You're..." _my crack of sunlight._

While he might not want him to be, France would always be there. They were not dead just yet.

Then again, neither had Day been, at one point.

Maybe he _was_ scared.

* * *

_Sequel to Freedom._


	82. Mirth

**Mirth**

"This is a competition," England was saying, digging his cleats into the turf. "So I don't see why you're so happy."

"You forget," France responded, still smiling. "It is a game first. Aren't we here to have fun?"

"Have fun and win, but I concede to your point."

And the football game began. It was nothing big, nothing was riding upon this victory as France had managed to keep betting out of it. Just a game, just for fun. Just to loosen up some muscles sore from desk work.

Tied halfway through their game, England looked at him appraisingly.

"It's been a while since we've done this like _this_. Actually... have we ever?"

"_Oui_."

End of the game and the fun seemed to be on the other side of the field. "This was fun!" England crowed his victory. France scowled.

"Was it?"

"Oh, don't be that way! This wasn't about victory, remember?"

"You're the one who seems to have forgotten," France retorted. He studied England with interest and the smile vanished from the victor's mouth.

"Oh no. What are you thinking." His voice remained flat.

France smiled. "Nothing~"

"That's for sure."

France let that insult slide by as he walked over – slowly so as to not startle the guarded Nation. "_Mon cher_..." he crooned, sliding an arm around him, ignoring the "_get your hands off me_" that instigated. Then he began to tickle him.

"What the– bollocks! France, stop!"

But England was laughing and that incited no desire from France to stop what he was doing. England kept pushing back at him, but the island Nation did not have enough coordination through his laughter to either stop France or tickle him in return.

They hit the ground and were covered in dirt, but by that point France could say truthfully they had both won this game. Even if England denied it.

Which he would. France would have done the same.


	83. Break Up

**Break****-Up**

It was not always a betrayal. From any side. Sometimes it just was. They agreed upon it. It was like a decision they made in the morning – a wonderfully harsh decision – one neither could live without and it would start everything. They would decide to ruin everything. Humans were like this too, were they not?

England believed so. He clung to that thought to keep himself steady. This was like any other relationship, between any Nation, Human, animal, anything. They could choose to ruin a bad thing, a good thing, anything.

Usually he got to throw in some of his favourite insults about the frog during these times. It was nice to be able to say them. Say them with such heated passion, with such venom, with all of the frustration he had not been able to express since playing nice for a little bit.

They would throw things, sometimes. When yelling was not enough, when they did not feel like actually using their own hands and feet and nails and teeth to show their displeasure. England liked throwing things at France when he was in France's house. Breaking France's belongings on France, where the only part of England that could hurt would be his ego. Nothing more, he would tell himself. And sometimes it was even true.

France would be shouting still. It was in French. England could translate it, if he wanted, but he might not choose to, because seriously, what was the point?

There was always a stopping point.

Maybe something priceless would be broken. Maybe someone would start bleeding (more than before, to be noticed when other marks were never felt). Maybe someone would loose their voice and the silence from one side would be deafening. Maybe someone would just walk out.

And just sometimes, sometimes, sometimes...

England liked it when France started crying. It was a victory, when one of them had to win, and England liked being victorious. When England started to cry, however, it was simply a set back. France would not have won yet, after all England was still standing here. England was not finished yet. Just because hot tears were streaming down his cheeks did not mean he had lost.

This time France slapped him.

England stopped, stunned. France looked furious, as if England had won.

A victory he still did not feel.

They had made this decision.

_Didn't we?_

"_Sortez_!"

England's mind did not work. He was simply aware this was his own house, France was furious, and neither of them were crying. Anymore.

Sometimes (just sometimes) England realized having a friend was impossible when one was a Nation.

As soon as he knew that, he made himself forget.

"This is my house."

_Did you forget, France?_

Sometimes they would part angrily.

Sometimes they would part in sadness.

France left his house without a clear emotion for England to cling to.

Sitting down amongst his shattered possessions, England thought of absolutely nothing. And the tempest calmed, because nothing could never mean nothing. Not for a Nation. England knew this and chose not to remember.

The next time he saw France, they would pretend none of this could have happened. Because, sometimes, the truth was they needed an excuse to pretend _they_ had never existed.


	84. Make Up

**Make-Up**

The ring at his doorbell was not unexpected, but the face when France opened the door was.

France did not know who he expected, but it certainly would not be England. There were months between themselves and that fight. They had seen each other since then, both alone and not (though more likely not). Mentioning what had happened was a breach in a trust that they did not have with each other, but it was not a breach either of them made. France knew why he did not do it. It was to save himself, not for England's sake. He did not know why England did not. He tried not to think about it.

England stood there, face slightly vacant. Probably a defence against what he was about to do. France steeled himself for anything, but found the defence failing when viewing the flowers England had in hand.

"Can we talk?" England asked, voice almost pitifully quiet.

France was used to being the instigator of this part of their relationship. England barely reached out to anyone, let alone the country he declared to hate the most. It was not to say England never did this. Not at all, but France found himself surprised by it each time.

The surprise came with other emotions as well. France was very used to the array he could feel in these situations. Many times he was relieved, many times he was flattered, touched, and then there were the times he was angry England thought this would work.

Thankfully, this time, France was relieved. "Yes. Let's talk."

He let England in and they just spoke. By evening, France was reminded of something he continuously forgot.

He loved just talking to this aggravating Nation.

And they would do this all over again; in the near or far future they would do this all over again.


End file.
